I played dumb. "Really?"
She groaned and went limp, slumping crookedly in her chair. "You're the worst."
"I'll raise your allowance anyway. You've been a good sport about the move, and now you'll be too busy with all the new witch stuff to get a part-time job."
She didn't argue.
After a moment of pouting, she said, "The next time I see Corvin, I'm giving him a wedgie."
"Good," I said. "The kid probably needs more social interaction to level him out. His mother must have been the weird one, because Chet seems normal enough."
She snorted. "Normal enough? Don't you mean dreamy? You love him. You have a super-big crush on him. Mom and Mr. Moore, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G."
I didn't like where this conversation was heading. I'd tried my best to shield my daughter from the highs and lows of my love life. I wasn't always successful, but I did what I could to respect her boundaries.
She carried on with the sing-song teasing. She was six years older than Corvin, yet I could see the childlike resemblance.
Luckily, I knew how to change the topic instantly.
With a flick of my wrist, I levitated an empty coffee cup using my magic. It danced merrily in the air between us—no hands, no strings, no net. Just magic.
Zoey stopped her singing mid-word and held very still, her gaze riveted to the cup.
"Telekinesis," I said. "Or psychokinesis, if you prefer that term." I didn't. It was the psycho part at the beginning.
"You really are a witch," she said with a wondrous sigh.
I twirled the cup clockwise and then counter-clockwise. "I feel like a kid with a new toy."
"Can you make those pretty light sparkles that Auntie Z did?"
"I could try, but I don't know where to even start. I'm afraid I'll make something explode, which wouldn't be so bad if it was just a scone, but a human head could be really bad. I'm sticking to simple levitation until I know more about these powers." I levitated the cup's saucer and matched them up mid-air.
Zoey clapped her hands, her teen grumpiness completely forgotten. "Do some more tricks, Mom."
"As you wish."
For the next ten minutes, I showed her how I could perform a myriad of small tasks hands-free. I shifted plates and poured liquids from cup to cup. For my grand finale, I floated a glob of chocolate-hazelnut spread from the container and smeared it onto a waffle, all without getting a knife dirty.
She clapped her hands, squealing, "Again! Do it again!"
I repeated the smearing, and then floated the waffle over to my mouth where I made the waffle disappear in the usual, not-so-magical manner.
"Now you try," I said.
She wrinkled her nose. "You think I can move stuff with my mind? I've been trying for the last ten minutes and nothing's happening for me."
"Keep trying. You're so smart that you're used to things coming easily to you, and you don't know how to stick with something through failure."
She raised an eyebrow. "Are you talking about me, or you?"
"Catch the cup," I said, and I floated an empty cup toward her quickly.
She scrunched her face and clenched her fists. The cup sailed over her shoulder, hit the wall, and crashed to the floor, where it broke.
"Don't!" She glared at me angrily. "Don't."
"Try again," I said, and sent a saucer sailing at her.
This time, she reached out with her hand and tried to catch the dish. It bounced off her fingertips and smashed on the floor with the cup.
Her cheeks flushed red and she began huffing audibly. "Don't," she said tersely. "You're just making me feel stupid."
In my most encouraging, motherly tone, I said, "Sweetie, you have to keep trying."
With a grumble of displeasure, she narrowed her eyes at the objects on the table, her gaze moving from spoon to cup to waffle. Nothing moved or even wiggled.
"Try something small," I said.
"I am." She flicked her gaze up to meet my eyes. My ears flushed with warmth. The longer she glowered at me, the more my ears heated up.
"Maybe we should take a break," I said. "And by we, I mean you. I'm worried about getting my head exploded."
She sighed and used her hand to pick up a leftover waffle stick, which she rolled up inside a crepe. "My powers need me to carbo load," she said as she took a bite.
"Sounds legit." I used my magic to draw closed the sheer curtains on the dining room's window. The house sat on the corner lot of the block. The dining room had a quaint view over a side hedge and down the cross-street, but any people walking along the sidewalk might be able to peer in at us practicing magic. I thought of wacky ol' Dorothy Tibbits and her binoculars. I twitched the curtains back and looked around for the odd, blue-pinafore-wearing woman but didn't see her.
When I turned back to Zoey, she let out an exasperated sigh. "I can't even budge the smallest crumb." She threw down her partly eaten carbo-load wrap, crossed her arms, and thrust out her lower lip.
"Don't pout." I took a seat across from her. "You know what happens to little pouty lips." I hadn't teased her like this in years, and it was fun to bring back one of our childhood rituals.
She kept pouting. If anything, she pouted harder.
With a flick of my finger, I pulled up a dollop of custard, floated it across the table, and dropped it straight down on her pouting lower lip.
Her eyes bulged in surprise.
My mouth twisted into a wicked grin. After so many years of me warning her what might happen to little girls who pouted while a bird just happened to be flying by, it had finally happened. Sort of.
Zoey didn't find my new trick quite so magnificent. From the look on her face, you would have thought an actual bird flew into the room and pooped on her.
"Evil!" She rubbed the custard away with a napkin and pointed at me with an accusing finger. "Witch!"
I shrugged. "Tell me something I don't know."
She spluttered, "You're not supposed to do things to other witches!"
"It must have been an invisible bird," I said, craning my neck to search the room's upper corners. "Didn't you see it flying around?"
"Witch." She pointed a finger at my face accusingly.
While she was distracted, I used my magic to fold a napkin into an origami bird. I covered my hand with my mouth and said, "Caw! Caw!" The white napkin bird fluttered up from the table and flew around the room.
"Evil," she said, not even cracking a grin. "And you won't even show me how you're doing all these cool tricks, so that makes you double evil."
"I swear I'm not trying to keep anything from you. I don't know how I'm doing these things. I'm sorry if I'm making it look easy, but it is. I simply look at something, imagine the motions needed, and it starts happening." I shrugged as a miniature scone topped with peach jam sailed through the air toward my mouth. I made it disappear to where the waffles had gone.
Zoey's arms were still crossed. "You're going to gain a million pounds," she said.
"Nope." I shook my head. "This sort of thing burns a ton of calories." I didn't know how I knew that, but I did. "I can feel the calories burning away inside me, in my witch furnace."
She narrowed her eyes. "You might be right," she admitted. "It takes energy to move matter, and the energy has to come from somewhere."
"If that's true, then becoming a witch is the greatest thing that has ever happened to anyone, anywhere. Oh, the things we're going to eat!"
Zoey twisted her lips to the side. "I've got homework," she said plainly.
"On Saturday? You always have your homework finished Friday night."
"I just remembered I have more," she lied, unconvincingly.
"But what about this mess? You think these dishes are going to wash themselves?"
She walked over to where I sat and patted me on the shoulder. "Yes, Mom. I think the dishes are going to wash themselves." She let out a witchy cackle. "Go to it. Make the dishes was themselves. It will be good practice."
&n
bsp; I clenched my fist and swung my arm theatrically. "Curses!"
"No curses," she said. "Auntie Z said something about a curse at dinner, and she wouldn't explain what she meant, but it didn't sound good."
"I as joking," I said.
"Right." She gave me a somewhat dirty look and then stomped out of the dining room.
I stared after her and let the smile drop off my face.
I'd tried to keep the tone light and breezy, so she wouldn't feel too much pressure. One of the reasons Zoey did her homework on Friday night was because she hated leaving things to the last minute. She couldn't take the pressure, especially if any performance was involved. Despite our similar appearances, that was one key difference between the two of us. If we were to attend a karaoke party, I'd be the first to volunteer for a song and she'd be the last. That was, assuming I could even drag her to a karaoke night. She could be fun, but it had to be planned in advance. It caused her immense anxiety to have last-minute plans sprung upon her.
I wondered, was my daughter's dislike of spontaneity the thing keeping her powers from manifesting?
Or was there something more sinister—or disappointing—in play?
Chapter 19
While Zoey did her pretend "homework" upstairs, I used my witch powers to clean up from brunch.
Small objects were easy, but I struggled with the coffee pot. I could lift it, but I couldn't pour without making a mess.
I wasn't that surprised heavy things were beyond my skill level. The power had to be like a muscle, needing repeated practice and concentration to get stronger. Unfortunately, my concentration skills were lacking. I did manage to get the dishes "washing themselves" but as soon as my mind wandered, the scrub brush and sponge would stop moving. The regular dishwasher outdid my magic easily.
What I didn't expect was how satisfying it was to use magic. For example, wringing out a kitchen sponge was utterly delightful. I could squeeze it either by replicating the way I'd squeeze it non-magically, with one hand squishing the sponge, or I could stretch it from both ends and wring it in a perfect twist. The mid-air twist was both aesthetically pleasing as well as effective. If I wrung the sponge for too long, it became bone-dry and unable to wipe up anything.
I could have spent an hour practicing my sponge-twisting technique, but I was interrupted by a knock at the door.
My heart pounded guiltily as my mind raced with paranoia. It was the witch police! They could tell I was practicing magic without their authorization and without half a clue!
The knocking came again, heavier this time. Urgent. Authoritative.
Why weren't they using the doorbell? I couldn't yell doorbell at my daughter if there was no ding-dong.
I untied my spotless apron, left it on the clean kitchen island, and went to open the front door.
Nobody was there. The porch was empty. I leaned out and glanced up and down the street. An older male neighbor was walking his brown Labradoodle across the street. He saw me looking and gave me a friendly wave. People in Wisteria were so friendly.
I waved back and called out, "Was someone at my door just a minute ago?"
He held one hand to his ear and started crossing toward me. "What's that?"
"Never mind," I said. "I thought I heard someone knocking on my door, but it must have been my teenage daughter playing a joke on me."
He reached my steps and stopped at the bottom. His Labradoodle, which was one of the taller ones I'd seen, launched itself up the stairs toward me. I stretched out my hand to be sniffed and licked by the happy pooch.
The man said, "Teenage daughter? You're too young to have a teenager." He waggled his white, fluffy eyebrows. "Maybe you're imagining things. The Red Witch House has that effect on people."
My ears began to ring, as if an internal alarm had been triggered inside me. He'd said the word witch. Did people say the word witch all the time and I hadn't noticed until now?
The soft-curled brown dog continued to nose my hand, and then tried to sneak past me into my house.
I said to the man, "I'm sorry, but what did you say? Does my house have a name?"
The older man chuckled. "All the kids in the neighborhood call this the Red Witch House."
"Because a Red Witch lives here? Or used to?"
"It's probably because of the Gothic Revival architecture," he said. "It reminds people of Tim Burton movies, I suppose. Most of the other heritage houses around here are in the Craftsman style." He looked up at the facade and the gingerbread trim that I'd loved from the minute I'd seen. He continued, "Personally, I've always loved this home. I found its previous owner eccentric, but in a good way. Winona was a lovely woman. It's such a shame she killed herself that way."
I was petting the Labradoodle, but suddenly I couldn't feel my hands. The friendly dog could have been eating my thumbs and I wouldn't have noticed.
"The owner killed herself?"
"That didn't come out right," he said. "I meant that she killed herself in the same way people who drive dangerously kill themselves by their own carelessness."
I glanced over at the blue house next door. Chet had told me Winona Vander Zalm went peacefully, but it seemed he'd been lying to me.
"Forgive me for asking," I said. "How did she die?"
The man tugged on the dog's leash. "Doodles, leave the nice lady alone. Let's go home, girl. Or do you want to go monster hunting? What do you say, girl?"
"Monster hunting?" I stopped petting the dog with my numb hands and walked down my steps. I met the man on the sidewalk and extended my hand. "Zara Riddle," I said. "My daughter, who really is a teenager, and I just moved in here."
He shook my hand. "I'm Arden, and that's Doodles." He wrinkled his nose and glanced down at our hands, which were both slick from his dog's tongue. He chuckled as we released our handshake. "Zara, you and I are now dog-spit bonded."
"Oh." I couldn't care less about the dog spittle, but I wiped my hand on my hip to conform to social norms.
With a casual tone, I said, "Arden, I don't mean to be morbid, but nobody will tell me how Ms. Vander Zalm passed away." I batted my eyelashes in a manner I hoped was charming. "Since we're dog-spit buddies now, you'll tell me, right?"
Arden's gray eyes got a faraway look. "That woman loved her Pop Tarts," he said. "She could whip up a five-course meal fit for a king, but when it came to comfort food, she loved her Pop Tarts. She told me all about her habits whenever we met up at the dog park down the street." He smiled wistfully, his eyes still unfocused. "She hadn't had a dog in years, but she always brought home-made dog treats for Doodles. That's why my dog's trying to get into your house. Poor girl doesn't know the old lady's gone."
Right on cue, Doodles sat by her master's feet with a sad whimper.
We still weren't any closer to the method of my ghost's demise. I ventured a guess. "Did she stick a fork in the toaster while making Pop Tarts, and electrocute herself in the kitchen?"
He chuckled. "Winona didn't make Pop Tarts in the kitchen," he said. "She made them in the bathroom, while she took long baths in the claw-foot tub."
A cloud of chilly air whooshed up my back and blew right through me. Was that the point of the sleeptoasting? Had the woman's spirit had been trying to tell me about her accident? Trying to warn me not to make the same mistake?
"Did she drop the toaster in the bathtub?"
He nodded, his expression turning serious. "That's what folks figure happened. It was very odd."
"But that shouldn't kill a person," I said. "It's just one of those urban legends. I saw the toaster thing demonstrated on that TV show where they try things from movies. Dropping a small appliance into a tub would short out the circuit, and blow the electrical breaker long before it delivered enough electricity to kill someone."
Arden blinked and stared at me, forehead wrinkled. "Are you calling me a liar?"
"Of course not," I said quickly. "Just wondering if the toaster thing is a rumor. Maybe something the pesky local children made up." I was t
hinking of one pesky local child in particular. He had big eyes, blue-black hair, and might be able to see dead people.
Doodles whimpered again. Her owner glanced up at the highest peak of my roof. "We're being watched," he said.
I followed his gaze to my roof, where a blue jay was perched. A really big blue jay. The bird ruffled its dark blue head crest and stared back at us.
I waved at the bird. "Hello, blue jay."
Arden's clothes rustled as he shuffled away from me. "Nice to meet you, Zara. You have a good day, and I'll see you around." He gave the dog's leash a tug, and they were on their way.
"Nice meeting you," I called after them. "And I'll have you know my house is just a regular house. I'm going to paint it a different color, so it won't be red anymore and stupid kids can't call it the Red Witch House!"
Change the paint from Wisconsin Barn Red? I could do that. I could do anything I wanted to. Now that I was an actual witch, I needed to keep a low profile, and living in something called the Red Witch House wasn't ideal.
I put my hands on my hips and looked up at the bird on the peak.
"Hey, blue jay. What do you think? Should I paint the house blue, like you?"
The blue jay let out squawk.
"I suppose not," I said in agreement. Blue would be copying the Moore house next door.
I asked the bird, "How about green? Something to compliment the wisteria vines?"
The blue jay squawked again.
"Not purple," I said. "That's the most eccentric color there is." Many of the most interesting people I'd met over the years loved the color purple, and it would look good on the home's wood siding, but purple was the most witchy color of all. I might as well write Witch House on the mailbox.
"Yellow?"
The blue jay stretched out his wings and took to the air.
"I'll take that as a yes," I said. Sure. Everybody loves a yellow house.
My daughter darkened the open doorway. "What are you doing out there on the sidewalk?"
"Talking to a bird and thinking about painting the house."
"No, you're not. You're trying to lift this whole house, aren't you?"
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