Try Me
Page 24
Okay, here's the deal. I was fed up with Cory's bullying. More importantly, I had a plan. Last fall, our science teacher trapped a black widow spider in a fruit jar. He passed the jar up and down the rows so we could get a good look at its shiny black body, long, long legs and the red hour glass on its belly. When I turned around to hand the jar to Cory, he levitated about a foot in the air. Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead, and his hands were shaking. He may have even wet his pants. I didn't check, for obvious reasons.
What good is secret information if you don't use it? The time had come. I rose in my seat, my eyes wide with horror as I gazed at the top of Cory's head. “Oh, my God! That's the biggest black widow spider I've ever seen. Cory! It's in your hair!"
Ashen-faced, Cory screamed like a little girl and scrambled into the aisle, jumping up and down and clawing at his hair with both hands. “Is it gone? Is it gone?” he yelled.
After a brief flurry of excitement—most of the kids were still half asleep—somebody from the rear of the bus spoke up. “Come on, dude, she's playin’ ya. There's no spider."
Patti glanced over her shoulder. “This isn't even black widow season. Get your ass in the seat!"
Hoots of laughter echoed through the bus. Cory collapsed back into his seat then turned to glare at me. He'd pretty much stopped harassing me after I punched him in the face the past January, when he said something gross about Faye and Big Ed.
Mercedes leaned close and murmured, “Cool. I told you he was into you."
She thought Cory had a secret crush on me, that the purpose of his bullying was to get my attention. Mercedes was a total drama queen who saw unrequited love in the strangest of circumstances. She taped every episode of General Hospital and watched them on Saturdays.
"As if,” I said in Mercedes-speak.
The bus pulled up in front of our pathetic excuse for a high school. John J. Peacock H.S. had exactly eighty-seven students in four grades. The Peacock school district was like a rich family's poor relative—sorta like Faye and me—jammed between two prosperous districts to the north and south.
All the rich kids who lived in Peacock Heights, located on the hills above Peacock Flats, went to Hilltop Christian School. They wore WWJD buttons—What Would Jesus Do—and the teenagers got blitzed every weekend. I don't think Jesus was a big party guy, but then again, he did turn water into wine. Even though Matt and Tiffany lived in the flats, they went to Hilltop. Aunt Sandra wouldn't allow them to go to public school.
After Patti's usual send-off—"You blockheads behave. See ya later, taters—” we poured out of the bus and into the old brick building, down a narrow hallway and through the ancient cafeteria, whose support beams were wrapped in thick insulation to keep the asbestos from seeping out. At least that's what our principal, Mr. Hostetler told us.
I had the perfect opportunity in English class to test out my new super powers. I sat at a perfectly level table with the perfect cylinder, a number two pencil. Could I make it roll horizontally across the desk? I glanced around to make sure nobody was watching before I tried. And tried. And tried. Couldn't do it. All right! Goodbye, super powers. Or maybe my mind was too cluttered with Mrs. Burke's multi-cultural lesson of the week.
Mrs. Burke was big on us learning about other cultures. Each week, we had a foreign phrase to use. This week it was French.
"When I call your name,” she announced on Monday, “you will respond by saying, “C?est moi, Madame Burke,” which she told us meant, “It is me."
Sometimes she had to call roll three or four times before everyone cooperated. Today was no exception. Cory Philpott, still surly from our encounter on the bus, kept mumbling, “This is bullshit,” under his breath and refused to answer.
Finally, Junior Martinez, who's two years older than the rest us due to his unfortunate incarceration for carving up a rival gang member, turned around and told Cory, “Say it, you little piss pot."
He did.
A lot of the girls at Peacock H.S. had the hots for Junior. He had smooth, olive skin, a deep dimple in his right cheek, and he drove a low rider to school. Rumor had it he was trying to nail every girl in the freshman class and he was right on schedule. Except for me, of course. Faye may not be Mother of the Year, but she told me everything I needed to know about sex. Sometimes more than I wanted to know. Manny saw Junior pushing a kid in a stroller, so apparently he's already reproduced. Extremely uncool.
After I punched Cory—and got kicked out of school for a week—Junior started calling me “Home Girl” and “One Punch.” Not that I would ever be part of a gang but it doesn't hurt to have Junior on your side. Mercedes, of course, saw it differently.
"Ohmigod!” she exclaimed. “Junior totally likes you."
After school I stayed on the bus when Manny and Mercedes got off. When Patti stopped in front of Kizzy's house, Cory just had to get in one last shot.
"Oooo, you're staying with the witch tonight. You gonna boil up a couple of little kids?"
I slung my back pack over one shoulder and started down the steps before I answered, “Nope, but we sure could use a big old hunk of white meat. Want to stop over later?"
"Good one, G,” Patti said. “That boy never learns."
"Pick me up here tomorrow, okay?"
"Damn straight,” she said with a jaunty wave.
The doors slid shut and the big tires spit gravel as Patti tromped on the gas pedal.
As I approached Kizzy's house, I felt my heart beat a little faster. The house could barely be seen from the road. It was hidden behind a humungous hedge that ran all the way around her property. The only way to get in was through the iron gate set in middle of the hedge. I never approached the gate straight on. I cut over to the hedge and sneaked up on it because of the eye. The gate had this spooky eye painted on it. Swear to God, no matter how hard I tried to avoid the eye, it watched me, its glaring black pupil tracking my every move. A falcon's eye, Kizzy told me. A symbol used to ward off evil.
In spite of what Cory said, Kizzy was not a witch. She was a Romany gypsy, and apparently there was a difference. Who knew?
With an involuntary shiver, I averted my gaze from the eye, slipped through the gate and trotted down the walk toward the hulking, two-story house. The porch, with its overhanging roof, wrapped all the way around both sides of the house. A veranda, Kizzy called it.
"Alfrieda, you're here!"
Kizzy stood at the top of the stairs and held out her arms. She was the only person who called me by my hideous real name. Thanks to Claude, Faye's dad, I was given the name Alfrieda Carlotta Emerson. Faye ran away from home at seventeen. A year later, stuck in the hospital with a baby she didn't want (me) and no visible means of support, she struck a deal with Claude. In exchange for paying the hospital bill, he got to name me after his beloved, long-dead mother, Alfrieda Carlotta Emerson the First.
"Hey, Kizzy!” I slipped off my back pack and stepped into her embrace. She smelled of incense, lavender and Virginia Slims. Not that I'm a fashion expert but Kizzy always looked like she was dressed for a photo shoot in case a photographer from Vogue magazine was hanging around Peacock Flats.
Today, she wore a silk, turquoise dress the same color as her eyes. Her long, dark braid, sprinkled with gray, was draped over one shoulder. Three silver bangle bracelets encircled each wrist. Silver hoops hung from her ears. She'd replaced the rune stone she usually wore around her neck with a pale blue gemstone in an ornate silver setting. The stone was the size of a large marble. A shimmer of light danced on its surface. Strangely, I felt a strong need to reach out, touch it, hold it in my hand and stroke its glistening surface. I clasped my hands together tightly to resist the urge.
Kizzy studied my face then gently touched the mark in the middle of my forehead with a manicured fingernail. “Ah, I see the third eye has awakened. Come. Sit"
She led me to the porch swing.
Okay, sometimes Kizzy creeped me out. Wasn't it bad enough I lived in a travel trailer and wore cl
othes from a thrift shop? I mean, nothing screamed “Loser,” like a third eye popping out in the middle of your forehead. I rolled my eyes in disgust.
"Should I start wearing bangs?"
Kizzy's tinkling laughter reassured me. “It's not a real eye, Alfrieda. The third eye is located deep within the brain. It's called ‘the seat of the soul,’ the link between the physical and spiritual worlds. Tell me what happened."
I took a deep breath and the words tumbled out. The only thing I held back was my visit from Trilby. When I told her about Blaster and the glass, I watched Kizzy's face carefully, looking for something negative, maybe a flicker of amusement or doubt. Instead, she clapped her hands in delight. Her clear, turquoise eyes danced with excitement.
"Oh, but that's wonderful! Don't you see?” Once again, she reached out and touched the tiny mark in the middle of my forehead. “You hit your head in the exact spot where the third eye is located. And the headache you had? The awakening of the third eye causes pressure at the base of the brain. It's all as it is supposed to be, darling girl."
Impulsively, she drew me in for another hug. Normally, I'm not into touchy-feely stuff, but as Kizzy stroked my hair and patted my back, I felt hot tears stinging my eyes. When there's nobody to talk to, things build up in your mind until you feel like your brain will explode. I mean, what do you do with all that stuff? It bounces around in your head and makes you crazy. In spite of the whole “third eye” thing, at least one person thought I was okay.
"What about the electric fence?” My voice came out muffled, since I was still pressed against the front of Kizzy's silk dress.
She released me and, without thought, I took hold of the gleaming stone that hung around her neck. It felt warm in my hand. “The jolt of electricity in combination with the bump on your head probably gave you a jump-start, so to speak."
I giggled and stroked the smooth blue stone.
She tapped a fingernail against her front tooth, something she did when she was deep in thought. “Hmm, yes, I'm sure of it. The telekinetic power—when you made the bull run backward —was a manifestation of the two phenomena working together. And the buzzing sound and tunnel vision? It's called an aura."
"But I can't do it anymore,” I said. “I tried in English class. I couldn't even move a pencil.” I added hastily, “Not that I want to."
"You weren't motivated,” Kizzy said. “The power will return."
The sun slipped beneath the veranda's overhanging roof. I held the pendant to the light and gasped as sunlight sparkled and danced on its opalescent surface. “It's beautiful,” I said. “What do you call it?"
"A moonstone,” Kizzy said. “It was my mother's. Her name was Magda.” She leaned forward and looked deep into my eyes. “What do you see when you look at this house? When you see the way I live?"
Whoa, was there a right answer here? I loved Kizzy for the good person she was. But I was pretty sure her question wasn't about that. I remembered my mother saying, “Look at that house! She has people to drive her around, cook for her, clean for her. Where do you get dough like that?"
"Well,” I said, clearing my throat and looking away. “You seem to be pretty rich."
"Exactly!” Kizzy's eyes filled with tears. She dug around in the pocket of her dress and pulled out a tissue. She dabbed at her eyes. “But my mother was the saddest person I've ever known. She said it was because of the moonstone."
I dropped it like it was a burning ember. “Why?"
Kizzy shrugged. “She claimed she was being punished for misusing its power."
Oh great, I thought, looking at the pendant. More magic B.S.
"She wanted more children, but my father died when I was four. It was just the two of us in that big house in Seattle, surrounded by riches my mother could not enjoy."
"How did she misuse the moonstone?"
"She said she'd done something shameful, that she'd been greedy. She blamed herself for my father's death. Somehow, in her mind, it was all connected. The moonstone, the money, her loneliness."
"That's all she told you?"
Kizzy nodded. “I didn't know about the moonstone until Mother was dying. She told me to keep it safe until I met the right person."
"But what about your daughter? What about Carmel?"
Kizzy and her husband had adopted Carmel as a baby. The only thing she'd told me was she and her daughter weren't close and that Carmel hung out with a rough crowd. Kizzy always rolled her eyes and murmured, “Bad blood,” when I mentioned her daughter. Today was no exception.
"Not Carmel,” she said firmly. “She's not the right person."
"Right person for what?"
"Someone with the Gift. Someone pure of heart who would use it for good, not evil."
"Oh,” I said. “Somebody like you."
Kizzy took my hand. “No, my dear. I don't have the Gift.” She looked at my palm, traced the arc that circled what Kizzy called “the lunar mound,” and ended below my little finger. “Mother had a line exactly like this, but you have something she didn't."
I rolled my eyes. Not this again. “Yeah, right,” I mumbled and tried to pull my hand away.
Kizzy tightened her grip and pointed at a tiny constellation of whorls and hatch marks in the center of my lunar mound. “Look,” she said. “A perfect star."
I jerked my hand away. “Everybody has that."
"No."
Kizzy showed me her palm. No star. No line. I shook my head in denial, suddenly uncomfortable with the whole spooky business.
Kizzy slipped the moonstone pendant from around her neck. Once again, she took my hand and turned it palm up. I knew what was coming and felt powerless to stop it. I watched, hardly daring to breathe. She dropped the moonstone onto my palm, the glistening silver chain pooling around it. She gently closed my fingers.
* * *
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Table of Contents
Readers Raved About Val Shapiro and Fang
Dedication
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, plac…
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
A Note From Parker Blue
Where Val's Adventures Began
If you love Val Shapiro, you'll love Allie Emerson
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
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