Witch-Child

by Gerilyn Marin

  "It's been . . . pointed out to me that maybe I'm not giving you a fair chance," I offer with a light shrug.

  "And?" His voice drops to a barely audible whisper as the late bell sounds.

  "And, that maybe if I get to know you, then I'll stop treating you like some newly discovered species on display at the zoo."

  "I don't know," he says, shaking his head as he gives a weary sigh, "I think I'd miss your angry stares too much."

  I know I'm walking right into it, but I can't help it when the look on my face goes from curious to withering.

  "See? Just like that—not sure how I'll make it through my day without it."

  I roll my eyes and rest my elbow over the back of my chair, and simply frown at him for a moment, doing my best to empty all the negativity out of my expression. "Could you be serious, please?"

  "Miss McKenna, Mr. Addison," the teacher calls out and I realize that we've been completely ignoring that he has already entered the room and is starting to review last night's homework. "Might I ask that you continue your clearly very engaging conversation after class?"

  "Sorry, Mr. Bell," I offer meekly, sitting up straight and facing forward. I may be acting compliant, but oh, what I wouldn't give for him to get smacked by another eraser right about now, what with how this makes everyone turn to look at Grey and me.

  Mr. Bell taps the chalk against the board sharply, calling attention back to himself, and continues on in his usual droning lecture-voice. I try to push aside my irritation, but there are two problems with that: my curiosity always gets the better of me, and I have next to no patience. The idea of sitting here and waiting until the end of class just to get an answer doesn't take long to wear on my nerves and make me fidget.

  As I pick at the chipped, wood-colored laminate on my desk, I see Grey bend to retrieve something from his backpack.

  When he sits back up, he holds a red Sharpie marker, and proceeds to turn to a clean sheet of paper in his binder.

  I flick a glance toward his face for a quick moment to find that he's writing something while keeping his eyes on Mr. Bell. He pushes the corner of the book closer to the edge of his desk so I can more easily read what he's written.

  Are you allergic to tomatoes?

  Now, I know we're supposed to be paying attention to the teacher—or at least trying to look like it—but I can't help turning my face completely towards him and mouthing silently, "Huh?"

  He keeps his focus on the front of the classroom and simply adds a second question mark to the end of the sentence.

  No, I scribble on the corner of my own page, only to cover it over with what's intended to look like random doodles.

  On a low-carb diet?

  Eh? Well, I can only think he's trying to turn the tables on me in some fashion, because I'd had him confused just a few minutes ago, and now he's confusing me. I draw an arrow back to my original, though now blotted out, answer.

  I can just about see his teeth sink into his bottom lip as he blindly writes out the next question, Lactose intolerant?

  He may as well come out and ask, "Does cheese make you fart?"

  Nearly against my will, I bite my lip, too, in an effort not to laugh.

  I don't bother drawing another arrow, because if I put pen to paper again, I might sidetrack this whatever-it-is by informing him that I was raised to believe something like that isn't usually information a girl should be comfortable sharing with a guy who looks like him—though I'd probably leave that last part out. Instead, I simply wait, figuring my lack of response will get him to look over. When he does, I shake my head at him, once more curling my lip so he maybe gets that I feel it was an inappropriate question.

  Weirder than all of this is that after he nods back, that's the end of it. I keep expecting another bizarre question, but it never comes, and when I glance at his desk, I see that he's dived right into whatever equation Mr. Bell has been prattling on about. See, I'm not behind Wendi in math because I can't keep up, so much as because I just don't bother to try. Holding in a sigh, I shift focus and attempt to pay attention to the lesson.

  Surprisingly, for a little while I forget that I'm waiting for Grey's actual yes-or-no response. I can only guess that he started packing his stuff early, because when the bell rings, he's already out of his seat. Frowning, I begin to stuff things into my own bag. All I can think is that I am so not about to run after him. I'm not actually asking him on a date . . . or to hang out or whatever, but I jump a little when I find him suddenly leaning over my shoulder, his face right beside mine.

  "Me, you, six o'clock, pizza."

  "Oh," is all I can say at first, as his questions—tomatoes, carbs, lactose—finally make sense. He's so close that I don't want to turn to look at him, but I do anyway. "Where? There are, like, four pizza shops within a ten-block radius of each other."

  He turns toward me now, too, and I can feel his breath on my skin as he speaks. "The one across from Katsulos' Pharmacy."

  A little, unpleasant thrill ripples through me at those words, causing me to sit up straighter as I instantly recall the incident from yesterday that—despite making a fuss over after it had first happened—I've strangely forgotten about until this moment. However, this is the answer I've been waiting for, so I try to push the feeling aside and force a shrug.

  "Um, yeah, sure."

  His blue-green eyes flicker over my face before he nods, and then he pulls away. I find, for some reason I can't quite figure, that I can't move as I watch him walk out of the classroom.

  I slump in my chair, shaking my head as I finish putting my things away and stand to pull my messenger bag over my shoulder. I know that it's only a coincidence; there's no way he could know about what had happened yesterday—I hadn't even explained it to Wendi—but I can't help feeling like it's more than that. He couldn't have been consciously looking for a response, but definitely the fact that I did react to mention of the area wasn't lost on him.

  Being stupid again, I tell myself in a shrill tone and head out to my next class.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  My Favorite Gossip Mongers

  "Cadence McKenna! How could you not tell me?" Wendi's screech cuts through the air from somewhere behind me and I hear hurried footsteps rushing up.

  Holding in a sigh, I turn to face her, trying to keep a blank expression. I avoided speaking to her through last period, acting like I was so caught up in the lesson that I just didn't notice her eyes boring holes in the back of my head, then I slipped out of the room while she packed up her bag. Not like I was expecting to completely break from her—I mean, she lives next door—I just know what's coming.

  "Tell you what, my sweetness?" I say with as innocent a look as I can manage.

  She gets so close that the tips of our noses are only about an inch apart. "Why didn't you tell me you were going to go through with it?"

  I shrug, turning away and walking, making sure it looks like I'm not paying attention to whether she's catching up to me or not. "Maybe because I wasn't sure I was going to?"

  Wendi gasps, and I swear the sound grates right down my spine, but that’s probably just me imaging said gasp worse than it is, because I so don’t want to talk about this and I know she’s not going to let me stay quiet.

  "Oh my God, I was right! You do like him!"

  I stop short and turn toward her, my gaze darting around at the other students milling past who have just halted to look at us because of her outburst.

  "Take it easy, Drama-rella," I say in a warning tone. My voice drops to a harsh whisper. "I do not, I just didn't want to get embarrassed if I asked and he said no, that's all!"

  "Oh," she says, looking immediately deflated, and I take it as a cue that we can start walking again. "So then why were you two being cuddly during math class?"

  The only thing stopping me from . . . well, stopping again is that I'd like to get home sometime this afternoon and if I stopped every time Wendi wanted to talk about Grey and me, I might never move again. Huh, I
guess he has been the subject of our conversations a lot since the day he started school here.

  "Where did you even hear that? We were just talking!" Sure, the teacher getting slapped by an inanimate object she has to hear about from me, this she's on top of already.

  "Stacy," she says with a shrug.

  "And you believed her? You know better!"

  Head cheerleader Stacy Bonham—of all people to listen to. Sure, we're friendly with her, but she's a well-known, one-girl rumor mill. I can't say that she did it maliciously, though; she's kinda nice, so she might have figured that if I do like him and other girls think Grey and I were acting couply, then they'll back off. Or she likes him and figures that since we weren't being all couply I'll get embarrassed and steer clear of him.

  Crap. I don't want to have to ask her which one it is directly.

  "Sorry." Wendi hangs her head a bit. "Soooo . . . what actually happened?"

  I shrug, letting my gaze rove around as we walk. When I make a sharp turn a block earlier than our usual route, she doesn't question it, and I can only figure she understands that I'm avoiding the pharmacy after yesterday afternoon's incident. The small saving grace about meeting Grey later is that I'll be walking from the other direction, so I won't have to make any deviations to bypass the area.

  "We're going to hang out at six and talk, over some pizza."

  "Pizza?" She just about hollers in my ear. "That's barely a date!"

  I chuckle mirthlessly at that, but then she’s a bit of a romantic—has been since the first time we didn’t say ew about boys. "Um, hello? We're in high school, and this is not some cheesy movie. And besides that," I pause in my steps just long enough to shake my head at her, "it's not really a date. I know that, he knows that, and you should know that since it was your ridiculous idea in the first place."

  "Okay. And speaking of, when I said it yesterday, you looked at me like I'd sprouted a second head. What made you change your mind?"

  "Well . . . ." I can't very well tell her I spotted the boy creeping around the cemetery; she'll think I'm making that up. "I was explaining the whole thing to Jeremy and he said you were right."

  Yeah, I'm lying. Sue me.

  "He did?" She turns her face away a little as we cross the street, and I don't say anything even though I know she's doing it to hide a small blush. "That's . . . good."

  I try not to smile as she forgets all about bugging me on the Grey situation to needle me with questions about Jeremy's school and the not-as-subtle-as-she-thinks hinting as to whether or not I know anything about his love life. Sure, the whole her-and-my-brother thing is annoying—I’d probably think it adorable if they’d just start talking to each other about things instead of me—doesn't mean it's beneath me to use it to my advantage.

  When I get to my house, Mom's car is in the driveway. Normally, I stop into the kitchen and drop a kiss on her cheek, but today I'm preoccupied with trying to do the math on what I know of Grey thus far.

  I do manage to call out a quick, "I'm home," as I head up the stairs to my room, though.

  Grey lived in Florida and maybe another normal, cheery state or two before moving here. If what we've seen at school of his wardrobe selection is any indicator, then he has pretty good taste in music. His parents seem to be as normal as you can get, from what I've heard, when they're in town; Wendi says they go on lots of business trips, which was why moving to our little burg wasn't a big deal since they didn't live where they work, anyway. He's an only child—I think. Totally, completely normal guy.

  Who prowls around the cemetery at night and isn't fazed by apparent poltergeist activity occurring on a semi-regular basis.

  Hmm . . . seeing as he has a tan and sits in direct sunlight during most of our classes, I suppose the idea that he's a vampire, and his normal-seeming parents are really actors he's paid to stroll into town just often enough to stave off suspicion, is out the window. I had even been almost willing to grudgingly accept that I was just put off by him because he was a drop of normal in the bucket full of spooky we're all so accustomed to, but then, this morning happened, so now . . . not so much on the normal, no.

  I open my door and drop my bag on my bed before I continue to the closet, a heavy sigh flowing out as I look over the hangers. No, I don't want to get all girly, but I do want to make it look like I'm at least making an effort. Maybe something a little less uptight-seeming than a turtleneck would do for a pizza-hangout, pseudo-date, whatever-the-heck is actually happening tonight. I won’t get too far with the questioning if he suspects that I'm not being genuine.

  I hear the floorboards in the hall creak, so even though she forgoes knocking and tiptoes in an effort to be stealthy, I already know what to expect when I glance over my shoulder to see Mom seated on my bed. She caught me good this morning. Gotta wonder why the woman gets so much joy out of scaring the bejeezus out of her kids, though.

  She groans playfully when she sees that she hasn't caught me by surprise. "How do you always know?"

  I laugh, pulling out a hanger in each hand; one with a short-sleeved, black button-down on it, the other with a satin, burgundy tank top. "We can go with I'm psychic, or, you've got all the mad-ninja-skills of a drunken circus clown; your pick."

  Rising from the bed, she crosses the room to examine the shirts as she gives a mirthful half-grin.

  "You're barely psychic, so I guess we'll go with 'drunk clown.'" Mom takes the hanger with the tank top from my hand and holds it against me. "Wanna tell me why we're evaluating our wardrobe rather than doing our homework?"

  I can't help it; that makes me crack a smile. "I don't know, wanna stop speaking in the 'royal we?'"

  "Spill it," she says, pursing her lips as she reaches her free hand to stroke the ends of my hair in that condescending way usually only seen from moms on TV shows.

  Ah, crap. "Well, see . . . there's this boy—" And that's as far as I get.

  "Really?" Her hazel eyes light up instantly.

  "Oh, now, it's not like that. It's Grey Addison."

  "Mmm, the mysterious new boy." She laughs as she pulls the burgundy top off the hanger and tosses the black one carelessly onto the bed. "I hear he's pretty cute."

  Trying not to shudder, I grumble miserably. "God, Ma, please . . . . You just stop that, you dirty old woman."

  I shrug out of my turtleneck and pull on the burgundy tank top, as I explain to my mom what's been going on with Grey. Well, yes, minus his pre-dawn stroll amongst the gravestones.

  Mom frowns thoughtfully as she grabs me by the shoulders, steers me to my vanity table, and forces me to sit on the cushioned stool, facing the mirror.

  "Remind me again why you're listening to a Wendi-plan?" she asks pointedly as she picks up my grandmother's antique brush and sweeps my locks backward over my shoulders. "Didn't her last one involve you auditioning for a school play, and bombing on purpose, so she could go on after you and get the attention of a boy who was auditioning for the lead?"

  I blink at my reflection as the bristles tug through my hair. "She was nervous! She just wanted to be sure that if she got stage fright and choked, there would be no way she'd screw up worse than whoever went before her."

  There's a hunch to my shoulders and, being my mother, she doesn't miss it. "So what, exactly, is it that bothers you so much about Grey?"

  "If I knew, it wouldn't bother me so much. It was just weird. I mean, we've never talked before today, but somehow . . . ."

  When it becomes clear that I'm not going to finish my sentence, Mom prompts me. "Somehow . . . ?"

  "I don't know, it's like we just connected or something."

  "Oh?" is all she says as she folds her arms under her breasts and meets my gaze in the mirror.

  I clasp my hands in my lap and twist my fingers a bit nervously, as if this is a typical parental-interrogation. "I said I don't know. It was just . . . it felt like we knew each other already."

  She sets down the brush and reaches around my head to pinch my cheeks. I'd probably
be screaming bloody murder if this still hurt, but I'm used to the old trick handed down from Gran to give the cheeks color without using makeup. When other seven-year-old girls had their grandmothers begging them not to get stains on their Communion dresses, mine was teaching me how to nibble on my lips to make them look red and plump, sans lipstick.

  "Well, then you probably don't want to hear this, but," she folds her arms again and leans a hip against the nearby dresser, "that's sort of how I felt when your father and I first met."

  I don't even bother to sigh; instead, I lean forward and let my forehead land squarely on the polished wood surface in front of me. I can't see my mother's face, but I know she's scowling and shaking her head at me.

  "Now, Cae, don't do that! Letting stress get the better of you—"

  "—can age you faster than cheap makeup. I know." Gran's mantra, for cryin' out loud, how can I forget?

  I pull myself back up and turn on the stool to look at her. "Let me remind you that you think Dad is your soul-mate and you still divorced him."

  "You know that the divorce had nothing to do with how your father and I feel about each other," she says in a light voice, but I can see in her eyes that it's a show—a lady can't go lecturing her child about not letting herself get stressed and then succumb to it herself, now can she?

  I should know better—I do know better—it's a painful thing for her to think about, and here I am going into bitchy-teenager mode. I know that she and Dad still love each other; they'd only divorced because they couldn't take their constant arguing anymore. They deliberately made the decision to split while there was still love between them, rather than risk sticking it out—not when one of the potential outcomes was their relationship disintegrating so far that they couldn't stand to be in the same room together.

  My parents just didn't want to become those people who wouldn't be able to agree, out of sheer spite, on what's best for their children. And I know the motivation had been more than just trying to protect Jeremy and me from some nasty custody battle. They genuinely wanted never to hate each other.