“A Ginormous Incantamentum.”
A what?
My eyes popped.
“I—I didn’t think it would work,” Abigail said. “Nothing I do ever turns out right. I got mad at her. I wanted revenge. But the spell isn’t going away. I thought it would but it’s getting worse.”
It took me a few seconds to digest what she had said—no pun intended—because it was the most I had ever heard her say at one time.
The little voice inside of me—the one that reminded me I don’t believe in magic—became fainter and fainter and finally disappeared altogether. She was telling the truth. I had just been avoiding it, hoping for the impossible because the truth was impossible.
Manhattan Beach is not about witchcraft or curses or spells; it is about sun, surf, beach volleyball, ocean front homes, and blue-ribbon schools. Stuff like that does not happen here.
But Pamela had been eating non-stop for three weeks and not because of psychotropic drugs, psychosomatic illness, or psycho-anything.
However, Abigail’s admission brought up one small but very important detail.
“Are you saying you’re a witch?” I said.
“No.”
“Then what are you?”
“Not yet, I’m not.”
Go along with her; it’s safer that way.
“Okay, not a witch. So . . . you put a spell on her,” I said, in my best matter-of-fact voice. “Can you take it off? I mean it can’t be that hard. I mean you have a special ability the rest of us don’t; right?”
She frowned as if she both agreed and disagreed.
“Good. You can do it! I know you can.”
I thought I sounded convincing, if not a wee bit pompous. I took a course in counseling last summer and when someone is scared or feels threatened the last thing you want to do is add to it; you want to stay calm and keep the other person calm.
Abigail looked frantic. I never thought of myself as a negotiator, but I had to give it my best try.
At the same time the other half of my brain reasoned you don’t have to believe it if you don’t want to, just don’t make her mad.
I had never thought Abigail was the type to do something like this but who knew? More importantly, if she got mad, she might channel her whatever-it-was at me.
“I can’t,” she said in a small voice. “It's gone.”
"What’s gone? You mean you lost your—your magic ability?”
“Not the spell, the book with the spell in it. I found it on the bus after school. It’s the same book I dropped, and you picked up. When I saw what was happening to her, I threw it away.”
“You can find it,” I said. “Don’t give up so easily.”
Despite my fake can do attitude, this was serious. Pamela could not stop eating. Not only was she turning into a blimp, she might eat until she weighed three hundred pounds, or she might die. The human stomach has a limit. The spell had to be potent, and to think I picked up the book. I hoped there was no osmosis involved.
Abigail stared at me, her owl eyes bigger than ever, but she did not offer any suggestions or say where the book might be found.
“So, where did you throw it?” I assumed she had already tried to find it, but it never hurts to retrace your steps. Sometimes I’ll lose an earring, look for it, and step on it, having missed it the first time around because it was hidden in the rug. A book should not be that hard to find. It was old, not a textbook. I doubted if anyone would have picked it up.
“Over there.” She waved her hand in a broad sweeping gesture that covered a ten-mile radius. “Way over there.”
Getting information out of Abigail is like prying open a giant clam. “All right,” I said. “Show me where.”
“This way.” She turned and hurried off. I followed close behind and hoped no one would see me.
I didn’t know where we were headed until we went around the last building and I saw three dumpsters backed against a brick wall.
She turned and looked at me, her eyes bright. “It’s this one.” She stood in front of the middle dumpster and waited, as though expecting me to take the first step.
“It’s your book,” I said. “I’ll stand here in case someone comes along. If you hear me talking loudly into my phone, just scoot down inside and be quiet. I’ll let you know when they’re gone.”
I fumbled around in my backpack and pulled out my phone.
Abigail jumped up. Instead of grabbing the edge of the dumpster she leaned her head forward trying to peek over the side and came back down. She did it three times, but each jump was shorter than the last.
“It’s too high,” she said. “I can’t reach the top.”
“Sure, you can. Don’t be such a ninny. Grab the edge, hold on, and push off with one foot like you’re climbing a wall and then pull yourself up.”
I might as well have been speaking Old English for all the response I got. With each passing second, I was more and more disgusted with myself for getting dragged into this, but I was stuck. I couldn’t walk away, not with Pamela eating as if her body was going to separate into quarters and start replicating. A burst stomach means instant death.
“Never mind.” I stuffed my phone in my backpack. “I’ll give you a boost.”
I locked my fingers together and made a stirrup. She stepped up and grabbed the rim of the dumpster.
“Ah! . . . I can’t believe it!” she said.
Success.
She stood on her tiptoes and tried to lift herself higher. Gravel embedded in her soles ground into my palms and fingers. A big green fly buzzed past my nose. I looked sideways, watching it, hoping it would not land on my face. A cloud of smaller flies swarmed out of the dumpster. I pressed my lips together and held my breath so I wouldn’t inhale them.
“You see it?” I grunted, as I tried to talk without opening my mouth. “Great. Hurry up. I’ll hoist you over. Don’t fall. Put your foot on the top, then go over the side and try to land on your feet.”
“No. I don’t see anything. It stinks.”
“What do you expect?” I said, trying to talk with my mouth closed and breathe at the same time. “It’s full of garbage.”
“No, it isn’t. It’s empty.”
Nothing?
I spurted out the breath I had been holding in and blew a few gnats away. “That’s enough,” I said. “Get down.”
She hung onto the edge of the dumpster. I unlocked my fingers and she dropped to the ground.
“Geez,” I winced, “couldn’t you hold yourself up just a little bit?” I clenched and unclenched my hands. She scraped them when she finally let go and left long red welts. I grimaced and waved my hands.
Able to breathe again, I inhaled deeply, just as a breeze wafted by bringing a different smell. I stopped and sniffed. It wasn’t garbage, it was a stinky cigar.
“What are you ladies doing here?” Martin Morris the janitor sauntered over to us. We call him Mad Monk Morris because of his hair. He either has a tonsured haircut like a monk or it’s a strange form of male pattern baldness. Whichever it is, he also has an agitated, wild-eyed look about him. It’s probably his cigar; or he just doesn’t like teenagers. He curses a lot too when he picks up trash that’s blowing all over the campus.
I turned my back to the dumpster and gave him a big smile.
“Hi there, Mr. Morris! Abigail lost something. She thinks someone may have picked it up and threw it in the trash. I was helping her look for it.”
Mr. Morris rolled his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other and glared at us. “You sure you aren’t trying to set off a cherry bomb?” he snarled.
“What’s that?” said Abigail.
“Playing dumb won’t get you anywhere.” Mr. Morris glowered at us.
“We’re not playing dumb,” I said. “She’s telling the truth. We just wanted to see if it’s in there.”
He grunted and smirked. He obviously didn’t believe us, and he had good reason to be suspicious. Willy set off a cherry bomb in one o
f the girls’ bathrooms last week. The toilet still won’t flush.
“By the way,” I said, “do you know what happened to the trash?”
“The same thing that always happens to the trash,” Mr. Morris said. “Waste Management picked it up. As usual.”
“Oh, right,” I said, ignoring his rudeness. “Where did they take it?”
He narrowed his eyes at me. I must be the first person who ever asked him where the trash went.
“The landfill, where else?” He worked his cigar back to the other side of his mouth. “It’s out in Simi Valley,” he added, “if you must know.”
“Where is Simi Valley?” Abigail asked.
“Never mind, Mr. Morris,” I said. “Thanks! Have a nice day. We’ll see you later.”
I turned my head away from him, faced Abigail, and opened my eyes wide. Shut up, don’t ask any more questions.
“We appreciate your help.” I gave him my best smile.
When we were out of hearing, I muttered to Abigail, “You can’t keep asking questions. We don’t want him thinking we’re desperate enough to go to a landfill. I don’t know where it is either; we’ll Google it.”
“I love that smell,” Abigail said.
“What? The cigar?” I wrinkled my nose. She had to be joking. I glanced sideways at her. Her eyes were closed; she smiled and breathed deeply. She meant it.
I was still smarting over Mr. Morris. He has a lot of nerve talking to us like that. Smoking isn’t allowed on campus even when school is not in session, and he was criticizing us. Some people are so hypocritical. I would like to have told him off, but I’d heard his story, or part of it, from Hattori-san. “Try not to judge,” Hattori-san had said, and then explained that Mr. Morris had been a wrestler at one time. Beat up and without any skills he drifted into maintenance and our kind-hearted principal gave him a job at school. It was rumored he lived in a storage shed where old equipment was kept. No one ever saw him go in or out; no one paid any attention to him. Later, the school hired a clean-up crew, but Mr. Morris was allowed to stay on.
“What should we do now?” Abigail asked.
We?
“I don’t know about you, but I’m finished,” I said. “I’m not doing anything. You’re going to Google it and find out where the landfill is. I’m sorry, but I’m done.”
“What if I don’t find it?” she pleaded. “And how will I get there?”
“The spell will wear off,” I answered. “How long do those things last?”
“But I can’t—”
“See you later,” I said, turning my back.
At last, I was rid of her. I felt like skipping down the walk but that would’ve been too obvious.
“Olivia, wait! It’s not wearing off, that’s the problem,” she said, running after me.
“Well,” I said, turning around and walking backwards, “just give it time.”
“I have given it time.”
“Then give it more”—I stopped. Abigail was right next to me. How did she move so fast?
“You know it’s getting worse,” Abigail said. “You can’t pretend you don’t and just walk away. I wouldn’t ask for help if I didn’t need it. She may die.”
That last part did it. I had no choice. But for some reason she seemed to think I was leading this rescue mission, and I didn’t know why. I also wondered how important that driver’s license was.
“Look,” I said, “I can’t do anything till Friday and I’m not even sure—”
“Oh, thank you, Olivia, thank you. And we have to bring Pamela. The book says the person has to be there to undo the spell.”
“Why can’t you do it here? We’ll get the book, bring it back, and go to Polliwog Park, or the beach, someplace close. Why do we have to take her there?”
“Because if it doesn’t work . . . I wouldn’t want anyone else around. It might”—she peered over one shoulder, then over the other, and lowered her voice— “It might not end well.”
Ice coursed through my veins; guilt consumed me. There have been times I wanted to kill Pamela but now I regretted anything I had ever thought or said that could be interpreted that way. If any gods were listening, I hoped they knew.
“What could I possibly tell Pamela that would convince her to drive all the way to a landfill to find a book she’s never heard of so you can undo a spell she knows nothing about?”
“I don’t know”—Abigail waved her hands as if trying to dry them off— “but I know you can do it, Olivia. I know you can.” She turned around and hurried away.
I watched her leave and wished I had left five minutes earlier. Her last statement caught me off guard. I know you can do it. Had Abigail turned into my mother? What a bunch of crap. What a bunch of pure unmitigated . . .
Harsh metallic banging interrupted my thoughts. Was someone moving the dumpster? Trash could have slipped underneath, and maybe the book as well. It was worth a look, but when I arrived back at the dumpster, no one was there. The banging went on louder and was coming from around the corner.
Someone must be vandalizing the vending machines, I thought, as I ran to where they were kept.
It was Pamela.
At first, I told myself it couldn’t be. Her face had nearly doubled in size, at least around her cheeks and chin.
She drew back her arm and hit the machine with the heel of her hand. The machine clanked; a gear creaked. She banged it a few more times.
“Damn!” She glared at the empty tray. She waited and when nothing happened, she kicked the machine. It rocked back and forth but the food inside stayed where it was.
Pamela stepped back, took a deep breath, exhaled loudly as she pivoted, and struck out with her leg. Her heel slammed into the machine. Other than at a taekwondo exhibition given by Mr. Hattori, she had just done the hardest round kick I had ever seen. It was as shocking as seeing how big she was.
Careful, I thought, remembering how she punched me and knocked me into the bushes, don’t make her mad.
“I’ll try one more time, and you better give it up!” Pamela clenched her teeth.
I looked around. No one else was there. She was threatening the machine.
She fumbled around in her little backpack, pulled out a bill, and stuffed it into the slot.
The machine inhaled it. Pamela stepped back and watched as a Twinkie moved slowly to the front. It stopped, and stayed tantalizingly in view, but did not drop into the tray.
“Damn this thing!” She banged it with her hand. “Come on!”
She pushed all the buttons repeatedly. She did it so fast the dispenser could not have kept up even if it had been working right.
“Excuse me,” I said, in a small voice. “Did you lose your money? I can lend you some.”
“I don’t care about that,” Pamela said, not taking her eyes off the machine.
She lifted her foot, pulled it in close to her body, and struck out with a hard front kick. It jarred the machine and dented it, but the Twinkie did not move. In her desperation she forgot her training and pounded the machine with her fists.
“I want my food now!” she screamed.
If I didn’t do something fast, a good source of junk food would be lost forever.
“Here!” I reached into my backpack and pulled out a crumpled brown bag. “Half a sandwich. It’s a little dry but—”
She grabbed the bag, ripped it open, and stuffed the sandwich in her mouth. She didn’t seem to notice it was a day old.
“Thank you,” she said thickly, mumbling undecipherable words of praise at that pathetic leftover.
“Hey,” I said, brightly, “I just thought of something that might interest you.”
“Mm?” she said still chewing.
“There’s a really great food court just outside of town. It’s all you can eat, everything super-size.”
Pamela’s green eyes—which used to be as big as saucers but were now small and squished because of her chubby cheeks—lit up.
She wiped her mouth with t
he back of her hand and swept away the crumbs. Her cheeks puffed out. She swallowed and burped.
“Excuse me,” she said, taking a quick breath. “When can we go?”
Chapter 23. Hunted
I did not want to drag Mindy into this but unless I stole the family car there was no other way to get Pamela to the land fill.
“Olivia, have you thought this through? I mean with your brain?” Mindy asked.
“Very funny,” I said. “Sure, I have and it’s crazy but what else is there?”
“How did Abigail of all people cast a spell?”
“She said she used a book, but it doesn’t matter how, does it? Pamela has turned into an eating robot—as you’ve noticed—and nothing can stop her. Abigail says she can help.”
“Do you believe her?”
“I don’t think I—we—have a choice.”
At the word “we” Mindy’s eyebrows lifted but she did not argue; and I appreciated it.
“Sorry,” I said miserably.
As promised, Mindy picked me up Friday after school. Our school games were still cancelled. We both told our parents we were going to a volleyball game in another league in Orange County. My parents were busy with other things and I don’t think they paid any attention. Dad said, “Okay,” and that was it. Sometimes their distractedness is useful.
When I got in the bus, Pamela was already sitting in the middle row.
“I’m hungry,” she complained. She crumpled a Reece’s Pieces wrapper. There was a growing pile of wrappers on the floor. She dropped it on top, sighed, and gazed out the window.
The next stop was Abigail’s house.
Mindy turned down the same street where I had ended up with Francine on Halloween night. It had looked spooky then, and rightly so since it was Halloween, but in daylight it was simply decrepit and uncared for.
The mailbox leaned at a sharper angle than the first time I had seen it. The dirt at the base was in a raised mound higher than the overgrown grass around it. Weeds had taken root and the tallest reached almost to the bottom of the mailbox. One good shove would knock it over. That was probably how it got that way in the first place: someone placed a foot against the post and pushed hard enough to almost dig it out of the ground. The “W” was still missing.
One of Us: The City of Secrets Page 15