That is one thing I notice about going to school here as opposed to my old school, where people couldn’t wait for the bell to ring to get out of class. Everyone seems to enjoy their classes and life here. Though I suppose anyone would be more interested in learning about creating windstorms and magic potions than quadratic equations.
I cast a glance up to my bedroom window again and am relieved to find no one is standing there. I grab my own bag and wipe the stray blades of grass from the bottom of it.
I don’t have any more classes for the day, but I still have plenty of studying and reading to do. How an I ever supposed to get caught up? Ms. Brewster has been so busy that we haven’t met in days. Understandably.
Giselle’s parents visited the school the day before, but I couldn’t bring myself to face them. Ms. Brewster said they asked to meet Giselle’s friends, to thank them for being part of her life. They asked for me, as Giselle’s roommate. It would make sense for them to assume that Giselle and I were friends. But I declined the invitation, telling Ms. Brewster that I was just too upset. She accepted my excuse, but she seemed to know that I was lying.
She had to have heard about the ways Giselle bullied me. But then, if she had, she’d done nothing to stop it. She’s always nice, and I think she wants me to succeed here, but putting me in a room with Giselle was trouble waiting to happen. How could she not know?
Of course, I didn’t say anything. It’s my own fault I never went to her for help. It’s a big school; she can’t keep an eye on everyone and everything. Blaming her is unfair. I should have done something myself.
After Giselle’s parents left the school, I went back to my room to find all of Giselle’s things gone. Her books were cleared from her desk, her pile of shoes spilling out of her closet gone, the sequin pillows decorating her bed disappeared. I haven’t really settled into the room yet, so I still don’t have any pictures on the walls or very many clothes. Without Giselle’s stuff overwhelming the space, the room feels empty. Even though it’s now only my room, it’s not warm or inviting. It’s not a place I really like to be.
Without even thinking about it, I end up back in the grotto. I didn’t plan to come here again. The library would have been a better spot to study. But as soon as I step onto the stone flooring of the grotto, my mood lightens. The air here is always crisp and clean. It just smells green, if such a thing is possible. I’m much more comfortable here than in Giselle’s—I mean, my—empty room.
When I see the statue, my mouth curves up into a smile, pushing at my cheeks. It almost looks like he’s smiling, too. Of course, he’s always smiling.
Or was he?
When I first came here, I thought his face looked more pensive. Not sad, just thoughtful, as if he had a lot on his mind. But now, I can clearly see that the edges of his mouth are turned up just slightly at the corners. I must not have noticed it before.
I sigh and shake my head as I sit on the other pedestal and open my bag. “I must be going crazy,” I say. “Maybe you are like one of those Rorschach tests. Like people see what they want.”
When I first came to the grotto, I was so upset. So lost. Maybe that’s why his face looked more tense. Though, I’m not in much of a better place mentally today, so that idea doesn’t exactly hold water either.
I’m still behind. I still don’t have anyone to talk to. I still worry about Mama. And now I’m being haunted by the ghost of my bully. Things are actually, like, worse than when I came here.
I rub my forehead. Why did my soul feel lighter when I first entered the grotto? Ninety-nine percent of the time I feel like garbage.
I pull out my first book of the three I need to read today, and tears fill my eyes. Why am I even bothering? Everything is so hard! I’ll never catch up by June enough to pass any exams. I haven’t even spent any time on my secular classes because I’ve been so swamped with witchy stuff.
I toss my book back into my bag, press my palms to my eyes, and let out a strangled yell. Why am I doing this? Why am I here? What am I doing? Why am I tearing myself down? Do I want to be here or not?
“I don’t know!” I say, looking up at the statue.
There I go, talking to myself again.
“Sorry. I’m just...really messed up right now.”
Why am I apologizing to a statue?
I stand and stretch my back. Come to think of it, I haven’t done any exercises since I left home. I have to go up and down three flights of stairs several times a day to get to and from my room, but that’s nothing. Cheerleading is hard on a body, and I’m in great shape. Or I was. I poke at my belly and feel a little softer there than I did a few weeks ago.
I raise one of my arms over my head and tug it with the other. I bend so far to one side, my head is practically hitting the side of my knee. Then I do the same thing in the other direction. I bend forward at the waist until I can look through my legs at the statue looking down at me. I give him a wink.
“Enjoying the view?” I ask with a chuckle.
I straighten and then bend over backward until the palms of my hands and the soles of my feet are flat on the floor. I kick my right leg up, followed by my left into a handstand, then set my feet on the ground and raise my hands.
I wave to the imaginary crowd cheering for me. Cheerleading isn’t something I plan to continue in college. As much as I loved it, I know it wouldn’t be very beneficial to me in the long term. But I hope to possibly do some recreational gymnastics or something, depending on where I end up going to school.
Exhaling, I look back at my school bag. If I want any hope of going to university, I have to pass my classes—somehow. I sit down, my resolve to study renewed.
“Thanks,” I say to statue guy, giving him credit for encouraging me to stretch. I’m sure he appreciates it.
Just as I open Ethics of Witchcraft, my phone pings. My breath hitches when I see it’s Ms. Brewster. I open the message.
Please come to my office.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I was complaining about not getting help to catch up, but of course she would message me just as I was getting down to business. I pack up my bag and head out of the grotto.
“See you tomorrow...guy,” I say. I’ll have to come up with a better name for him when I have a spare minute.
Hahaha. Spare minute. What’s that?
A few minutes later, I’m knocking on the door to Ms. Brewster’s office.
“Enter,” she says. When I do, she tells me to have a seat. “Thank you for being so prompt.”
“No problem,” I say. “I’ve been waiting to meet with you.”
“Oh?” she asks, her eyebrows shooting up.
“To talk about a plan for catching me up?” I say, realizing she has probably forgotten all about me. I try not to take it personally. She has a lot of students to think about. Especially Giselle.
“Oh,” she says again. “Yes, we do need to do that, don’t we?”
I don’t say anything, a little concerned about why she called me in if not for that.
“Even though you were not able to meet with Giselle’s parents,” she says, and I gulp, “they wanted to let you know that they are thinking of you and wish you the best. I promised I would pass that message on.”
“That’s...kind,” I manage to squeak out.
“They are most anxious to find out what happened to their daughter,” she adds.
I hope I’m not about to get blamed for a murder I didn’t commit. Though, maybe that would be karma, since I got away with Beau’s death. Even if it was unintentional, it was my fault, and I haven’t paid the consequences for my actions yet.
I open my mouth, then clasp it shut again. Ms. Brewster said it was an accident. But maybe Giselle’s parents had the same concerns I did. Giselle was powerful. She should have been protected. Then there was the good luck sigil above the stairs. I had to admit that things didn’t quite add up.
Ms. Brewster sure seems to be studying me right now, but I’m not sure what she wants m
e to say.
“I can imagine they are quite upset,” I finally mumble.
Ms. Brewster presses her lips and nods. “When I came upon the scene, you were mumbling something about ‘not again.’ Can you explain that?”
My face goes hot, which I know makes it look like I must be hiding something. I wiggle my fingers, causing a cool breeze to waft across my face. When I hope I’m not red anymore, I say, “I had a friend who died back home not long ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Ms. Brewster says, but there is a distinct lack of sympathy in her voice.
I realize that if she hasn’t Googled me yet, she certainly will. I decide to come clean...mostly.
“It was my boyfriend,” I add.
Ms. Brewster blinks and looks at me hard, obviously waiting for me to continue.
“There was a tornado. You know, Oklahoma is Tornado Alley. They can spring up so suddenly.” I nibble my lower lip, not wanting to go on.
“How long ago was this, Madison?”.
“The day before I showed up at your gate.”
Ms. Brewster gasps, and her hand goes to her mouth in the first expression of emotion I have seen on her since I walked in here.
“Oh, Madison,” she says, shaking her head. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I can’t tell if she is sad for me or disappointed that I hid such a thing from her.
I shrug. “I don’t know. I was so...confused. I didn’t know what was going on around here. I was already behind and a country girl. Like I didn’t belong. I didn’t want one more thing to make me stand out.”
“But if that is why you came here, you should have told me,” Ms. Brewster says.
I want to know why, but I hesitate to ask. I’m a witch. I should be welcome here no matter what.
“Being a witch is mostly a mental exercise,” she continues. “Our innate abilities are only the first raindrop that starts a flood. If you are mentally and emotionally unable to control your powers, you could be a risk to yourself and those around you.”
My heart starts to race. I’m two seconds from being expelled. I just know it.
“Then teach me control,” I say. “That’s why I’m here.”
She shakes her head. “It has also come to my attention that you and Giselle were not getting along.”
My hands tighten into fists, my fingernails digging into my palms. “What are you saying?”
“That you have a problem controlling your powers when under emotional stress,” she says. “And that Giselle, whom you had a problem with, is now dead.”
“Oh my God!” I cry, my hand flying to my mouth. I sensed this conversation was heading in this direction, but somehow, her insinuation still hits me like a bag of bricks. “You...you think I killed Giselle?”
“No,” she quickly and firmly says. “Or, at least, I don’t think you did on purpose. Maybe you two fought, and you pushed her. Or blew her down the stairs. An accident.”
Accident.
I stifle my tears. “I didn’t even see Giselle that day until that moment. I left our room to study while she was still asleep.”
“Can anyone confirm your whereabouts?” she asks.
I open my mouth to tell her I was with Jaxon, Krista, and Ivy, but then realize I might just be roping them into this and dragging them down with me. The last thing I want to do is alienate the only friends I have here.
“Why would you think I had anything to do with Giselle’s death?” I ask. “Witches can’t kill.”
This time, it’s Ms. Brewster who blushes. She grimaces and gulps. “No, we can’t.”
“Then what exactly are you accusing me of?”
She shakes her head and looks down at her hands, folded tightly on her desk. “I’m not sure.”
“Do you think I’m somehow dangerous?” I ask. “Are you going to expel me?”
“I’m not going to expel you,” she says, but I notice she didn’t deny me possibly being dangerous. “As you said, you are here to learn. And you need to learn, probably more than anyone else here.”
“Umm...thanks?” I say at the...insult? I’m still not exactly sure what she is hinting at.
“But I am going to be keeping a close eye on you and your progress...or lack thereof,” she says as if she is scolding a child.
Anger rises in my chest. I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t hurt Giselle. I don’t deserve to be punished or monitored or whatever. I do need help, but not from someone who thinks I’m a killer.
“Good,” I say, trying not to sound like I’m talking through gritted teeth. “We can start by coming up with a plan for getting me caught up.”
“Fine,” she says as though I’ve just issued her a challenge. And I suppose I have. Getting caught up will be no easy feat. “Meet with me tomorrow before your first class.”
I stand. “I look forward to it.”
With that, I turn and walk out of her office before my jelly legs give out from under me.
I head to my room as quickly as possible, slam the door shut behind me, and press my back to it. I’m panting, and my face feels hot. It’s been a long time since I challenged an authority figure like that. And what was she trying to get me to confess to? It’s clear that she thinks I had something to do with Giselle’s death. I didn’t, though.
But if it looks like foul play, than that means someone else did.
How, though? If witches can’t kill, then it must have been a human. Yet, there are no humans at the school...that I know of.
Maybe there are some working here in some capacity who I haven’t come across. Or maybe there are other supernatural beings? I’ve heard fairies mentioned a few times in my classes. The others also seem to think that Hecate is not just a goddess figure, but a real woman.
Or maybe witches can’t kill, but they can cause violence in other ways. Would it violate Hecate’s pledge to hire a hitman, for example?
I go to my desk and pull out a piece of paper. I start writing down all the possible ways Giselle could have been killed in spite of Hecate’s pledge. Ms. Brewster doesn’t trust me, but if I can find out who really killed Giselle, maybe her faith in me will be restored.
After I’ve been writing for a few minutes, I realize this is the first time since Giselle’s death that I don’t feel the ominous presence in the room.
I go back to writing. I’ll be more than happy if Giselle has moved on.
Chapter 12
“That’s it?” I ask Mr. Hamilton after he hands me the list of books on Native American magic he compiled for me. Well, I generously call it a list. “Two books? In this whole building? I could find more at the public library.”
“That might be true,” he says, looking over his glasses at me. “But quantity is no replacement for quality. What can mortals possibly know about the magical world? Anything you find in a human library is probably going to be full of poppycock and nonsense.”
Poppycock?
“Some of it would be wrong, I’m sure,” I say. “But what about books by Native authors? There have to be more than two.”
“You haven’t read them yet,” he says, moving around his desk with a stack of books to return to the shelves. “You might find just the thing you are looking for within those covers.”
“Okay,” I say, not even trying to hide the disappointment in my voice.
I leave the library and head down the hall, scanning the two leather covers that have nothing more than titles on them with no author names. They aren’t particularly thick, though the pages are larger than an average book. But there is no way that everything about Native American spiritualism can be here. There were once thousands of tribes across North America, and there are still hundreds, many with their own beliefs and practices. Beau gave me a couple of books just on Cherokee people when we started dating. They’re still at my house.
Pain swells in my heart at the memory. He didn’t want to date someone who was completely ignorant about his culture. So he said if I read the books, we could go fo
r coffee. I read the books over a three-day weekend, and our coffee date turned into a whole afternoon, dinner, and breakfast the next morning. Mom didn’t even notice I’d spent the night away, though we only spent the time talking. And after that, we were inseparable.
I miss him.
Sure, we only dated for a year. We were young, and no one thought we were in it for the long haul. Not even me. I didn’t think we would even last to graduation.
But maybe we would have? Now I’d never know.
Now that I had time to really think about it, there were no reasons why we wouldn’t have stayed together. We rarely argued, and we shared a lot of the same interests. His parents liked me, though they did have concerns about him dating a white girl. But I didn’t mind. It just made me want to work harder to show him and his community I was sincere.
That said, I was keeping a huge secret from him. A secret that ended up killing him.
I cuss at myself for once again going to such a dark place. I’m punishing myself over an accident, but I don’t know how else to feel. The guilt is eating me alive. Accident or not, he’s dead because of me.
I go to my room and deposit the books on my desk on top of the list of possible ways Giselle could have died. It’s a short list, but I think they are all plausible. I pace for a moment, debating if I should call Mama. I really want Beau’s books. But I haven’t talked to her since I left. Now that I think about it, she hasn’t contacted me, either. Shouldn’t she have freaked out when she realized I was gone? I didn’t want her to come after me, but she’s my Mama. That’s what she should have done.
Now I’m mad, and I embrace that feeling as I pull out my phone and call her. It rings once, twice—
“Maddi?” Mama asks.
“Yeah,” I say, the anger having rushed out of me at the sound of her voice. I sink onto my bed. “It’s me.”
“What’s going on?” she asks, but she doesn’t sound overly concerned. She sounds like this is just an unexpected but normal phone call. As if I just called to let her know cheer practice was running long or something.
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