by KB Anne
She blushes, fidgeting with the edge of the book. She doesn’t seem affected by an electric charge at all. “No reason, just a guess. There have been rumors at school about him and Kensey.”
I clear my throat, trying not to think about Breas and Kensey. Trying not to think about Breas period. “I’m sure there have, but let’s not talk about him. I found this in the attic under a floorboard.”
She bends over to read the spine. “What kind of book is it?”
I flip it open. “Well, I’m not entirely sure, but I think it’s a spell book.”
Her eyes widen. “A spell book? What makes you say that?”
“I don’t know. Just a feeling. I can’t read any of the words, but look.” I point to the Celtic triskele.
“Wait …” she bends down closer to study it, “is that your shoulder tattoo?”
I pull down my shirt. “Yeah, isn’t that weird?”
She shrugs. “Sorta. I mean, Celtic symbols are pretty common.”
“Yeah, but what are the chances that the first symbol on the cover is the exact one I have on my shoulder.”
“True,” she says, leafing through the book. Every other page or so, she stops and studies the symbols and words. When she finds something really interesting, her eyes brighten, and she lifts the book close to her face as if she’s trying to insert herself into the scene. Other times, when she stumbles upon a particularly shocking image—and the book’s loaded with them—she jerks back and looks to me for confirmation that she will be okay.
I nod back for reassurance, but she should know me well enough to know that I can’t make that guarantee. I can never protect her the way she deserves to be protected.
If she feels an electric charge, she doesn’t show it. Maybe the tingly sensation is just in my imagination. After all, the past seven days have been one strange encounter after the next. First Breas, then I black out a bunch of times, then I find the book, then Friday night at Metropol and my mysterious dance partner.
Or maybe the tingly charge is just some flashback from a bad trip, which would serve me right for taking things that aren’t natural, but I can never say no to the guys in the band. Never. No matter how bad something is for me. Especially if it’s bad for me. I just keep showing up for more.
“Why do you think it’s a spell book?”
I flip through some pages. “I don’t know, but there’s some weird shit. Like here, look at this.”
On one spread, there’s a mythical beast—some sort of dog or wolf but larger than any canine I’ve ever seen. On another, a black cauldron covers most of the left page, and an old woman is throwing straw, plants, and little creatures into it.
Lizzie points to the dog-like animal. “Is that a grim like in Harry Potter?”
“I don’t know. It reminds me more of a werewolf.”
She shoves her shoulder into me. “Hot, sexy ones like in True Blood? Because those are werewolves I can get behind.”
“You mean in front of?”
She blushes. “Yeah, that too.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll warn Ryan that you enjoy howling at the moon and moonlight walks.”
“Knowing him, he’d be open to that sort of thing.” She tilts her head toward the ceiling and howls.
“How did things go at the bonfire?”
She furrows her forehead. “You really don’t remember anything about Friday night, do you?”
“I remember most of it.”
“Really? Because Ryan and Scott dragged you off the dance floor.”
“That’s when things start to get a little hazy.”
She pulls her lips in. “I’m sure. You need to be more careful.”
“I was careful. I didn’t drink anything. I didn’t take anything.”
She gives me those wide eyes that tells me she doesn’t believe a word I’ve said. I hate it when she does that. I hate it when she doesn’t believe me. I understand why other people don’t trust me, but I try never to lie to Lizzie. It’s just sometimes. Well, you know, it’s for her own good. But this time, I’m really telling her the truth.
“I had two drinks. Dieter wouldn’t give me more.”
“With good reason, but why would it take two days to recover from two drinks? You suck them down during band breaks faster than most people blink.”
“That’s why I don’t get it. After Scott pulled me from the dance floor, I felt …” I search for the word. It’s on the tip of my tongue. I can almost pull it from my brain, and … and … there it is. “Vanquished. I felt vanquished.”
She shakes her head. “You and Scott are such word nerds.”
“Thank you.”
She rolls her eyes and returns to leafing through the book. “For such a bad ass, you’ve got an odd sense of humor. Should we try one of these spells?”
If I had anything in my stomach, I’d be heaving it up over the side of the bed. The thought of Lizzie and spells makes me sick. Granted, I showed her the book, but I wasn’t really thinking about using it.
“I don’t know. I don’t want to cause anymore rift in the universe. Besides, isn’t magic like the ultimate JW sin? Like worse than premarital sex?”
She shrugs again. She really should stop hanging out with me and my apathetic behavior. I’m a terrible influence.
“Gi, we’re two teenage girls with a spell book. We have to try it. It’s like a law.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I break laws. I don’t follow them.”
She bobs her head up and down over and over. “Yeah, yeah, that’s what I mean. Trying a spell breaks every law of civilized convention. We can skip school and go to the indoor flea market tomorrow and buy some candles from that witch lady’s stand.”
I’ve created a monster. A JW-turned-school-skipping witch. If her parents knew the extent of her corruption, they would never have encouraged her to minister me. But I shouldn’t corrupt her completely. I do have a moral compass. More or less.
“We don’t need to skip. Gram has candles.”
“True, but do you want Gram to know that you need them for magic spells?”
“We don’t even know what the words mean. How do you expect us to recite a spell if we can’t read the words?”
She returns to the grim/werewolf. She leans in to study the image. “I don’t know. You’ve always been very imaginative.”
I stare down at the picture. “I’m not that imaginative.”
17
Change of Plans
Lizzie had me at breaking the law. I pulled the still-not-feeling-up-to-school card with Gram before Scott had time to stomp upstairs and drag my butt out of bed. My plan was to sleep in for a few more hours, then suggest to Gram that some fresh air would be good for my soul. She’s a sucker for healthy outdoor living, so it works to my advantage. I’d offer to drop off her inventory of tie-dyes and mugs to her friend Darius, who happens to have a stand at the flea market. I’d seal her approval by suggesting I pick up some goat cheese from Clara, who also has a stand at the flea market.
Scott, however, ignores Gram’s instructions. He marches up the stairs, swings open my door, stomps over to the bed, and yanks my pillow out from under me.
My head bangs on the bed, which sounds worse than it actually is, but still, you get the point.
“What’s the deal?”
“You’re not sick. You need to go to school today.”
“As a matter of fact, I’m not feeling well. I think it would be best to stay home and recover from my Friday night indiscretion.” Spoken with an air of entitlement that would make the Queen of Bullshit proud.
He tugs off my quilt. I scowl at him, but he’s annoyingly immune to my sour faces.
“This illness doesn’t have to do with Breas and Kensey does it?”
“No.” I make a weak attempt to reach for the blankets, before I fall back against the bed. If I’m too sick to go to school, I’m much too weak and feeble to fight him.
“Gigi, I know there’s something going on between the two of you. Everyone knows
it.”
I grab the blankets back. “Contrary to your Sherlock Holmes detective work, there is nothing going on between Breas and me.”
“That’s not what he told me last night.”
A flash of us together on the workbench pops into my mind. I collapse to the bed, a feeling of dread coming over me.
“What did he say?”
“He told me that Saturday night you met him out at the greenhouse and you, uh …” he blushes, “you, uh …” he swallows hard, “you spent most of the night hooking up.”
That would explain the dirt on my feet yesterday.
But I don’t remember anything past Friday night and my mysterious dance partner. He’s been all I can think about. All I’ve fantasized about.
And there’s been a lot of fantasizing.
“What does he mean by ‘hooking up?’ Did we have sex?”
He blushes again, though I don’t know why. It’s not like he’s a virgin. Girls throw themselves at the football team with no regard for their own actions or their non-football-playing boyfriends.
It seems highly unlikely that I had sex with Breas. I think I would remember that sort of thing. And why would he wait until last night to mention it to Scott? Why didn’t he gloat about it when he stalked into my room yesterday? I mean, Gram was there, but still, he strikes me as the gloating sort.
Unless … unless maybe he really cares about me and wants to preserve my reputation—although that’s already shot to hell. Maybe I haven’t given him enough credit. Maybe Gram’s right, and I should give him a chance.
It’s certainly something to think about, especially if I already had sex with him.
Scott clears his throat. “Gi, he didn’t say you had sex, but did you? And did you use protection?”
I don’t want to open myself up to a lecture from Scott. He’s always giving me the “Be Safe, Gigi” speech and shoving condoms into my backpack at wildly inappropriate times. Like when Uncle Mark’s reading some scholarly journal in his favorite chair, and we’re three feet away from him.
“If I did, it was without my knowledge.”
He crosses his arms. “Gi, what did you take Friday night?”
Why does everyone insist I took something Friday? I’m not an angel by any stretch of the imagination, but I’m not an addict either. “I didn’t take anything. I had two drinks and that’s it.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
I should have told him about the whole burning throat thing when we were younger, because then he’d know I’m telling the truth.
“I don’t remember anything about Saturday night. I especially don’t remember doing anything with Breas. Besides, what business is it of yours anyway?”
“When someone tells me that my best friend in the entire universe, the person who is the closest thing to having a sister, is screwing some guy at a club one night and another guy the next, it is my business.”
I jump up. “I didn’t screw anybody. Who told you that?”
“None of your business. You needed my help, and I was there.”
I shove him as hard as I can. “Leave me alone.”
He catches my hands. “Don’t do that, Gigi. Don’t push me away.”
His sadness leeches into my being. It’s enough to undo me. All the anger and rage seeps out of me, leaving nothing but an empty shell.
“I’m sorry. I’m such an asshole.”
“You’re not an asshole, but sometimes you make bad choices.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Sometimes?”
He laughs. “Well, maybe more than sometimes, but not all the time.”
I pull my lips to the side in an almost smile. “That’s better. I do have a reputation to maintain. Thank you for saving me Friday night.”
He tugs me into him for one of his hugs. “Gi, I will always be here for you. Always. That’s why you need to go to school.”
* * *
Ten minutes later I’m dressed and clutching a travel mug in the front seat of his truck. He starts backing out of the driveway. He doesn’t mention the missing passenger, and I don’t ask—at least for the first three minutes anyway.
But Breas is like a rash. Just because you don’t scratch, doesn’t mean it doesn’t itch.
“Where is he?”
“Who?” Scott asks as if he has no clue who I’m talking about.
“Breas. Where is he?”
He swallows. “I didn’t think he should come with us.”
“That’s kind of a dick move, don’t you think? Do you expect him to walk?”
“Dick move? You’re the queen of dick moves. The ultimate bitch.”
“Thank you, but we’re not talking about me. How’s he getting to school?”
His face flashes through a thousand shades of pink. “Someone was going to pick him up and take him to her dad’s dealership to get him some wheels.”
My stomach drops. “You’re kidding me.”
He shakes his head. “Evidently, her dad’s giving him a loaner until he goes back to Ireland.”
“He’s only been here a week.”
He shrugs as he turns into the school parking lot. “I guess he’s made quite an impression.”
“I’ll bet he has.”
And to think that in my twisted, warped mind I thought that maybe he had feelings for me. For me. I should have known better.
I do know better.
As Scott drives into his assigned spot, a motorcycle pulls up behind us.
“Hey, what’s the deal?” He glances in the rearview mirror, and his face goes zombie pasty.
“What? Who is it?”
He puts his hands on my shoulders to stop me from twisting around. “Gi, don’t worry about it. Let’s just go.”
I fight to break free from his hold, but his meat hooks are too big and strong. “What’s the deal? Who is it?”
Then I see the black motorcycle jacket with a female strapped to it tighter than a condom. I storm out of the truck and past the bike, the rider, and definitely his passenger.
“Gigi,” he calls out, “want to try a threesome?”
Kensey shrieks in a shrill voice loud enough for the entire parking lot and half the school to hear, “The crack whore’s daughter and me?”
I slow down. That bitch. That stupid, fucking bitch. I want to pound her stupid, smug face in.
“Gi, just keep walking. Walk right into the school. Pretend you’re not aware of anyone or anything,” Scott murmurs next to me.
“I can only imagine what STDs she carries,” Kensey says. “Besides, sweetheart, I don’t share.”
Sweetheart. She actually called him sweetheart. What is she ninety?
“Lassie, she’s got a way about her. She’s well worth sharing.”
Scott pushes me—well shoves me—the rest of the way into the building. Everyone’s staring again. I feel like I’m on a Groundhog Day loop. Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak would come in handy about now.
Scott storms past the gawkers and drags me down the hall into first period. Mr. Demarest glances up. I see the whites of his eyes when he realizes who Scott is with. I’m sure he’s shocked to see me in his class this early on a Monday. He’s shocked to see me period. I’ve hardly made it to first period since the first day of school, and I’ve got the grade to prove it.
“Knock it off, Scott. I gotta go to my locker.”
He pushes me into my seat, clears off the junk from the top of it, and dumps it on Mr. Demarest’s desk. Then he pulls over another desk and proceeds to sit down. He’s not even in his first period. I can’t believe he’d subject himself to Mr. Demarest just to make sure I stay in class.
“We’re not going anywhere,” he says. “Mr. Demarest will have every worksheet you need, and I have spare paper for notes. It’s more important for you to be in class. Isn’t that right, Mr. Demarest?”
Mr. Demarest nods his head with Scott working the strings. Scott can persuade anyone to do anything, but he never takes advantage of his talent. He’s weak t
hat way.
“Yes, yes, that’s right, Mr. McCleery.”
He smiles at me. “See?”
I slouch down in my seat. He might be able to make me sit through first period, but he can’t keep me in school the entire day. He’s got classes of his own.
Or at least I thought he did, but Mrs. LaRoche didn’t act the least bit surprised when he followed me into second period and sat through her entire class too, even though he doesn’t have her until eighth.
He could get away with murder.
Brownnoser.
On our way to third period, I stop in front of the girls’ bathroom. “Are you planning to follow me to all my classes?”
“Someone needs to make sure you go.”
“You’re really annoying, you know that?”
“I do my best.”
“Am I allowed to go into the bathroom by myself, or do you plan to follow me in there too?”
He swallows. “No, no, you can go by yourself. I’ll wait out here.”
“Thank you.”
I shove the bathroom door into the tile wall, and it slams shut behind me.
Scott’s so naïve. He finds the good in people. It’s what makes him human, or at least that’s what he says. I think it’s another one of his weaknesses. And while some say the meek will inherit the Earth, the truth is, the meek get devoured by the lion.
And this lioness ain’t ever going to be someone’s prey.
I climb out the window and land in the grass outside the bathroom. It’ll be a good five minutes before he barges in after me.
In case you’ve ever considered skipping school, pay attention. Nothing says “guilty” more than prowling along the edge of a building. The police are bound to be called on mere suspicion. Instead, stroll down the sidewalk in the middle of the day, acting like you’re supposed to be exactly where you are, doing exactly what you’re doing. Teachers, students, security guards, and administrators will believe you even if you’ve committed the same crime before.
Kensey steps in front of me. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Well, if it isn’t the class-skipping prom queen who must have a death wish.”
Her lips curl in her defiant I’ll-get-you-my-pretty snarl that I, alone, ever witness. “I asked you a question.”