by Fiona Horne
I slid into a row towards the front. I pulled out my new favourite book, a giant tome called Crystallography Made Clear, and perched it on my knee, but despite my best intentions I barely read a word, because I was too busy surreptitiously looking over at Matt. He didn’t so much as look at me during the whole trip.
By the time we pulled up to Summerland High I was convinced the reversal spell had worked. But there was one final test.
I waited in my seat until Matt walked down the aisle, and at the last possible moment I stuck out my foot. His leg caught it and he stumbled. But he still didn’t acknowledge my presence, not even to yell some expletive at me. It was like he didn’t even know I existed.
Oh well, I was just going to have to get red roses from someone else one day.
Alyssa and I were pounding it out on the basketball court. Amelia was feigning period pain; you didn’t have to be psychic to know she was fine – she just didn’t like team sports. Her specialty was the solitary skill of diving. I was amazed at her resilience at first – she would jump into the pool no matter how freezing it was. But she had confided in me eventually that she was able to use her psychic ability to change the way her body perceived the temperature of the water so that it was more appealing – like a nice, relaxing, warm bath temperature, say. It always gave her an edge, and she was the only one on the swim team who never caught a cold. She offered to show me how to do the temperature-changing thing, but for me playing land-based competitive sports was more fun. Until I’d come to Summerland High I had always shied away from group anything – so it almost felt subversive to me to run around sweating with other people in a sporting environment.
And my chosen sport was basketball. Not very magical, I know – unless you played like Alyssa and me. We had a little bit of an unfair advantage. She played defence and, being psychic, she knew where all the players were all the time! I was always goal-shooter, and Alyssa was getting really adept at moving things with her mind, using this psychokinetic energy stuff, so somehow my ball always made it through the hoop – always.
Our coach didn’t notice our magical manipulations, and we even earned a begrudging respect from some of the cooler kids, because even without the magic bit, we really did carve up the court.
We high-fived each other as we came off from playing another scorching quarter. Rebecca Gibson, a friend of Cassidy’s, gave us a nod and a small smile before Cassidy grabbed her arm and pulled her away from us, giving me the stink-eye.
‘I’m so sick of this bitchy cool-clique stuff,’ I said to Alyssa. ‘Why can’t we all just get along? Why can’t everyone be cool? Who decided that being skinny and stuck-up were the most admirable qualities in high schools?’
‘I don’t know.’ She shrugged. ‘Shows like Pretty Little Liars?’
‘I hate that show,’ I said.
‘I know. I do, too,’ said Alyssa, laughing.
And that got me thinking. Why couldn’t we all get along? Why couldn’t we all be cool? Perhaps there was a way to make that happen. I couldn’t wait to talk to the others about it. I was sure they were going to love the idea.
But I was wrong. Bryce was totally against it when I raised the idea at lunchtime.
‘Vania, you have no idea – it’s not fun being cool. You’re judged very heavily by the other cool people, and everyone is really shallow. It’s all about how you look and how much money your parents have; what kind of car they drive; whether you drink . . . It’s pathetic. I left that crowd for a reason, you know.’
‘You must miss it sometimes, Bryce,’ I teased.
‘Seriously, I don’t!’ he retorted.
‘Well, why do you look at Cassidy all the time then?’ I immediately regretted my words. Amelia squeezed my leg super hard under the table, and Dean looked at me and shook his head.
‘I don’t look at Cassidy all the time,’ Bryce said, rolling his eyes. ‘I look at her sometimes . . .’ – at this I had to roll my eyes – ‘. . . because I wonder what I ever saw in her. ‘But I also don’t want enemies, and she cops me a lot of attitude. I had to give up my class presidency because of the campaign she put up against me.’
It was true; Bryce had lost his presidency the week before. Cassidy had gone out of her way to collect signatures requesting that a new class president be voted for. And now a snooty boy, Henry Shields, was in charge. I knew I wouldn’t be going to him with any issues I may have – he looked down on us nerds even more than Cassidy did.
‘It sucks that she was able to do that, Bryce,’ Dean butted in, ‘but let’s get back to the point. I like the idea of a spell that would make it easier for us to get some respect.’
‘Our mother always says “respect yourself and the rest will follow”,’ the twins chimed.
‘Not everyone has parents as awesome as yours,’ I snapped. ‘My parents are always telling me to pull my head in and that my opinions are worth nothing.’
‘Wow! Harsh, Vania! I’m sorry to hear that,’ Bryce said sympathetically.
‘Okay to be honest we’ve been getting along okay lately – but they used to say stuff like that a lot.’
‘Standard fare, I think.’ Dean shrugged. ‘I’m just relieved that my dad is sober now – he still says stuff sometimes, but at least he doesn’t hit me anymore.’
Once again, Dean’s challenging family life made me realise I should be counting my lucky stars, not complaining about my home life.
‘Where could we even get a spell like that from?’ asked Alyssa.
By now we all knew better than to get one off the internet. Then inspiration struck. ‘We could make one up ourselves!’ I declared.
‘How do we know it’s not going to backfire like the love spell?’ asked Amelia.
‘I think that’s obvious: Brenda says spells work with the energy we put into them. We’re not going to do it from an angry place – it will be from a positive place of wanting everyone to get along.’
‘In theory,’ muttered Bryce. ‘But I’m going to have trouble not being angry.’
‘Maybe Bryce shouldn’t do it then?’ said Dean, looking at me as if I knew everything.
‘He can be included,’ said Alyssa. ‘We just have to make sure we are all aligned energetically. We can meditate together or something before we do the spell.’
‘I’m not sure. We all have to want to do it equally,’ I said, looking at Bryce. ‘You’ve been cool, Bryce – you know what it’s like. But we’ve never been, and we want to experience it. So don’t deny us, please!’
I made an attempt at batting my eyelids, which failed because my hair, as usual, was dangling over my face.
Bryce stared at me intently and my heart started flip-flopping around in my chest. It was truly too surreal to have this beautiful guy at our table. I mean, to be blunt, Dean was fat and had acne, the twins were covered in freckles and had frizzy red hair, I was a stringy-haired, flat-chested, fish-lipped freak and Bryce was . . . He looked like Brad Pitt in my mum’s other favourite movie, Thelma and Louise. Actually, maybe he was the freak for hanging out with us! I started laughing on the inside, until I realised Bryce was still looking straight at me and saying, ‘Okay, I’ll do your cool spell then.’
A huge smile spread across my face. I took a deep breath. This was a big deal, and I didn’t want to screw it up. I decided delegation was the best modus operandi to get the most powerful spell possible.
‘Okay, Dean and I will research the spell, and maybe the twins can come up with a meditation that we can all do to get in the right headspace . . . and Bryce, maybe you can . . .’
I trailed off as I saw that Bryce had his hands on his forehead like he had a headache or something.
‘Bryce, are you okay?’ I asked. His forehead was tightly creased.
‘Uh, yeah,’ he muttered. ‘I’m just asking my great-grandmother if she has any suggestions.’
‘What, right now?’ Dean said, and Bryce nodded.
We all stared at him, impressed.
After a fe
w minutes Bryce removed his hands from his temples and spoke. ‘Bessie says we should all get a marking to bind our evolved spirits.’
‘What kind of marking?’ Dean asked, echoing my thoughts.
‘A . . . star I think,’ Bryce said. ‘It’s hard to see.’ He squeezed his eyes closed more tightly. After a minute they shot open again.
‘Vania! Open your book to the front page!’ he said in a rush.
I picked up my notebook, turning it over so that the front cover was facing up.
‘Open it!’ Dean urged.
I was scared to – I was freaked out that Bryce was communicating with his dead great-grandmother in the middle of the quad. But I slowly turned back the cover, and on the front page was a large black symbol: a star with an arrow behind it.
I gasped and passed the book to Dean.
‘This looks totally cool – nice job, Vania,’ Dean said as he admired the design.
‘I didn’t put it there!’ I said.
‘Bessie projected it there,’ Bryce said calmly.
He took the notebook from Dean and nodded. ‘Yeah, it’s cool.’
‘We like it, too,’ chimed the twins.
‘What does a star with an arrow through it mean?’ I asked.
‘Bessie says it will gain its meaning as we gain knowledge,’ Bryce responded.
‘Where are we supposed to put it?’ I was intrigued.
‘It would be cool if we could get it tattooed!’ Alyssa said.
‘That would be interesting,’ I said. ‘We’re all going to get magical tattoos – yeah, right.’ I shook my head at the thought. Even though it would be awesome to get a tattoo, I knew my parents would completely lose it if I came home with one.
‘I don’t think my dad would care,’ Dean said. ‘He’s covered in them!’
‘We don’t want to become cool by getting tattoos,’ I said. ‘We want equality, remember? Maybe we can draw them on in texta or something?’
The others nodded. ‘I have an idea,’ Dean said. ‘There’s a local tree called a black walnut tree. We can make a semi-permanent dye from the walnuts and use that to make a tattoo. The Chumash used it back in the day. It won’t last forever, but it will last for a while.’
‘You’re really getting into this herb and plant stuff, Dean.’ Amelia smiled. ‘Just like a real shaman.’
‘You know, I think I may have found my niche,’ Dean said with a shy but proud grin.
Sunday morning arrived – the day we’d decided to do the ritual – and I still hadn’t written the spell. If I was honest, I’d been having some doubts about our cool spell. What if becoming cool did make Bryce want to be with me as I’d hoped? A chill had run through me – if he was into me only because of magic then it would be an enchanted attraction. What if it backfired and I had to reverse the spell? I wouldn’t even exist to him anymore! And I’d been also hoping that the spell might help encourage Mr Barrow to ease up on me. But what if rather than helping him like me, it made him hate me even more?
My mind was spinning like a clothes dryer – all tangled up. I needed to snap myself out of this unproductive train of thought. I reminded myself we weren’t doing this spell so that Bryce would like me. We were doing it to subvert the current climate of bitchy oppression and subjugation – we should concentrate on making everyone equal. That was a noble act, so surely nothing would go wrong?
I went to the bathroom and splashed my face with water. When I got back to my room I looked at the blank page, but I was still stuck. In the hope of conjuring a profoundly awesome magical epiphany, I had bought myself a quill pen with a feather tip and a bottle of ink. It looked archaic and gothic. According to a new book I was reading called A Magical Life, feathers represented air and air was the element of inspiration. I twirled the feather in my fingers. Why did I want to be cool? I wanted people to like me, especially Mr Barrow. I wanted everyone to get along. And I wanted Bryce to fall in love with me. I rolled my eyes.
How did I put all that into words without sounding like a dork? And that was just me – I was supposed to be writing this spell for everyone. Why did they want to be cool? I shook my head in frustration; it felt like it was full of cottonwool. I was majorly regretting suggesting this whole thing. I’d gone from living a relatively uncomplicated life as a loner to being part of a thriving hub of magic devotees who were relying on me to write a spell that would work and bring positive results – and not backfire.
What was cool? It couldn’t just be about how you looked or what you did or how you fitted in. It had to be about something deeper – a feeling of being satisfied, a feeling of knowing yourself, of liking yourself. A feeling that made you smile when you looked in the mirror in the morning, instead of frowning.
I dipped the quill in the ink – and promptly tipped the bottle over, the thick black ink splashing over the paper and the rug. Great.
It was too much. I would just can the spell – I would tell everyone that on deeper reflection I had decided that wanting to be cool was just dumb.
‘Vania, breakfast is ready,’ my mother called from down the hall.
I looked at the inky mess and shook my head. I was just going to leave it there. The stain was blending into the pattern on the rug anyway.
After my favourite breakfast of scrambled eggs with Vegemite on toast, I grabbed a roll of paper towel and headed back to my bedroom to deal with the stain.
But the ink on the paper was no longer a black trail of splashes and blots – it was an intricate pattern of roses and branches and birds, woven together in a web of inky threads like black starlight, illuminating everything by shadows.
Was this a message from Bryce’s dead great-grandmother, Bessie? If so, what did it mean?
My mother stuck her head into my room. ‘Vania, what are you doing?’
‘Look at this, Mum.’ I thrust the paper towards her. ‘Think I can make it as an artist?’
My mother glanced at the paper and laughed. ‘That’s just a mess – you’d better not have got any of that ink on the carpet!’ she said.
I was surprised at her lack of appreciation and looked back to the paper, and to my shock it did just look like a mess! But then as I gazed at it longer, the roses, birds and spider tendrils again formed from the blackness.
‘Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,’ I muttered, and suddenly I realised what I needed to write for the cool spell.
‘What did you say, Vania?’ My mother was looking at me questioningly, and I smiled.
‘Well, everyone said Jackson Pollock’s Blue Poles was a just mess, too.’
‘Good, well when you make two million dollars for selling a mess, you can take care of your father and me,’ she joked.
‘Deal,’ I said, and she smiled before starting to walk out of the room. ‘Can I shut the door?’ I asked quietly.
‘Well, how about you leave it open just a crack?’ Her voice was gentle.
I nodded, and she pulled the door to as she left. I sat listening to her footsteps retreating down the wooden hall.
The waning moon floated over the horizon, its diminishing light set in a pearly pink sky. The coven was standing on top of a cliff within a circle of seven white candles. I’d found out that the number seven was aligned with personal empowerment and that a circle of seven white candles would create a space to contain the power we raised so we could direct it to the goal of our spell. On the insides of our left wrists were our star arrows, dark-purple stains that we had painstakingly painted on each other with the black walnut dye Dean had made. We’d used the traditional Chumash technique, dipping a thin stick with a flattened tip, rather than a brush, into the bowl of sticky dye. Bryce had offered to paint mine on, and when his strong hand had taken my wrist my feelings of attraction for him had as usual, overflowed. Dilated pupils, palpitating heart, wobbly knees . . . but thankfully it had been twilight and I was sitting down. And for once he hadn’t looked me straight in the eye – he’d just stared at the symbol as he made it appear on my wrist. I
realised we were becoming increasingly platonic. If he had ever had feelings for me, they were certainly squashed after the whole Matt mess. But this was no time for regrets, only for magic. And the land we stood on resonated with an ancient timeless pull, grounding our feet and anchoring our intention as we raised our arms to the sky.
‘All space is here, all time is now!’ I called out loud, before the waves crashing below at the foot of the cliffs swallowed my voice.
The twins spoke next.
‘We live in the shadows behind the light. When we close our eyes, we can See.’
Next we dropped to our knees and pressed our hands to the ground, closing our eyes as the twins’ meditation washed over us. It was a meditation their mother had showed them. She did it before she performed her tea-leaf readings, to help her see things. The twins had spent a good twenty minutes explaining how to do it, but all we had to really do was close our eyes and focus. I watched the starry dance of light across the back of my eyelids. Science called this phenomenon ‘phosphene’, made by random firings of the nerves in our visual system, but right now, to us meditating coven members, it was a celestial ballet of light starring sparks born of Fonteyn and Baryshnikov, each twirling magically alone and together – affirming that we were all our own energy, yet in the centre of all things, and that anything was possible.
Eventually that weird buzzing sound of our energies started up, like it had the first night we were at the Purple Raven, and the energy behind our eyes seeped out and started whisking around outside us like folds of fairy floss, wrapping us up together in a sticky cocoon. We all opened our eyes in unison.
‘It’s time,’ Dean said. We all had stalks of lavender at our feet that were bound with strands of our hair. Dean had discovered that lavender was a powerful magical herb for purification, healing and protection. He’d said that the smoke from it would stop any negative energy from getting mixed up in our magic. The hair was because it was important to contribute something personal, to tie our intention to the spell. Now we picked them up and threw them on the fire.