A Fistful of Sky (4 page)

The only saving grace about this situation was that no one was around to see me.

I plunged into the pool. My skin screamed in horror at its coldness, and then I found myself swimming from one end of the pool to the other.

Those Y-camp swim lessons I’d had when I was twelve w ere finally coming in handy. I guessed I could do the freestyle and the backstroke and

the breaststroke, after all.

I sure did them that morning. I swam until my sides heaved and my muscles ached, back and forth, back and forth as the sun crept up the sky behind the house and the passion flowers on the poolyard fence opened.

I woke up at the bottom of the pool, trying to breathe water. I lunged up, coughing, and dragged myself out of the water to collapse on one of the chaise loungues on the pool’s cobbled rim. My chest heaved. My arms and legs felt as though they had been beaten with sticks, and my stomach gnawed on itself, I was so hungry. I coughed my throat raw. Everything hurt so much I doubted I could crawl to the house and ask someone to help me. Who was even home?

A vision of loveliness drifted into focus above me.

“Gyp! What’s the matter, honey?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered hoarsely.

Mama, warm and jasmine-smelling, sat beside me on the chaise and felt my forehead. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “I swam and swam until I started to drown. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“A little too much oomph,” she muttered, and tapped signs with hot fingertips on my forehead. I felt something tight inside me loosen a little.

“What are you doing?” I rasped.

“It’s for your own good, honey.” She smiled and stroked her hand across my short dark hair. “You know I worry about your weight. It’s holding you back, sweetie. How can you enjoy your womanhood if you’re hauling around all that fat? I thought it was time for you to get a taste of another way of life.”

I groaned. She’d been on my case to go on a diet ever since I was twelve. When she got too pushy, I complained to Dad, and he told Mama to back off. Dad said I was perfect just the way I was.

Dad wasn’t witchy, the way people in Mama’s family were, but Mama listened to him anyway.

Which was probably why he wasn’t here now. “Don’t do this,” I whispered to my mother. “Oh, honey.” She patted my cheek. “Just try it. You’ll like it.”

BUT of course I didn’t like it. For lunch I looked longingly at sliced ham,

cheddar cheese, sourdough bread, pickles, mayonnaise, Twinkies, potato chips. My hands made me a sprouts-and-olives sandwich, piled carrots on my plate, and added an apple. Dinner was a giant salad. In between lunch and dinner I powerwalked all through the village without stopping to look at anything.

I had a couple of hours of down time, but every time I picked up a book—which was what I liked to do during the summer, curl up on the porch swing with a cool drink and a hot book and read—I put it down again before I could finish a page, got up, and ran up and down the stairs for fifteen minutes. I was sweaty and exhausted, my stomach churning, after every one of these incidents. I learned not to touch books.

Mama had left in the afternoon to go to the TV station, where she was a special reporter who covered social events and local arts news—she knew everybody important in town, and they all liked her and told her things they wouldn’t tell anybody else; it was part of her gift, and made her invaluable—so I had dinner alone.

When Mama got home around eight, I was waiting. “Stop it, Mama. Please. Stop it. This is torture.”

“It’s hard the first day. It’ll get easier, honey.”

I wished she wouldn’t call me honey. I couldn’t even look at the honey pot. “The first day? How long is this supposed to last?”

She smiled, though her eyes looked sad. “Just a week. After that, we’ll see.”

“Mama.” I rubbed my eyes. I didn’t think I could take another day of this.

A tear streaked down her cheek. “This hurts me more than it does you.”

“I doubt it.”

She brushed past me and went to the kitchen.

I headed upstairs. I took a shower, contemplating the week ahead, then tried not to think about it. I went to my room, tired enough to sleep at eight-thirty in the evening. I lay down, pulled up the covers, and opened the fantasy novel I was reading.

I found myself running up and down the stairs. Mama came out of the kitchen, and I yelled at her. No words, just thumping shrieks as I pounded up and down the stairs. She ran away again.

I tried fighting the compulsions, but nothing stopped them. Mama was the best witch I knew. She could craft seamless, inescapable spells in her

sleep. I had no hint of power to fight them.

The second night, while Mama was at work, I called Dad’s hotel in Anaheim. The family was all out. I left voicemail begging him to call me back, then waited all evening for the phone to ring.

I called every afternoon as soon as Mama left for work. The family was never at the hotel, and they never called back.

On the sixth day of salads, fruit, fiber, and skim milk, I powerwalked past my friend Claire’s house, a couple blocks from mine. It was the third time I’d circled her block. I couldn’t go up to the front door; on these walks, which lasted until I was almost too tired to crawl home but not quite, I seemed confined to the sidewalk, no dawdling, no going up anybody’s driveway; but at least I could choose my direction. Claire came out of her house. That day her short curly hair was magenta with black streaks. “Hey, Gyp!” she called.

I walked past. “Hey, Claire,” I yelled over my shoulder.

“Stop!” she cried.

“Can’t.” I walked on and turned a corner, then went around her block again, hoping she’d still be in the yard when I passed the next time.

“What’s the matter?” she asked as I cruised past.

“I can’t stop.”

She opened the gate and caught up with me. “Are you on some kind of program?” I reached for her hand. If only I could cling to something and make myself stop!

We had never held hands before, so for a second she didn’t get it, but finally she put her hand in mine. I tried to stop, but even Claire’s touch didn’t free me. I tugged her forward with me. “Slow down, will you?” she asked.

“I’m sorry, Claire. I can’t slow down.” Tears gushed out of my eyes. “I’ll let go if you want me to.”

“What is it, Gyp? What’s wrong? You look sick.”

“My mama—I—” Of course Mama would put a “protect secrets” component into the spell; she was thorough that way. No matter how much I wanted to tell Claire everything, I wouldn’t be able to.

Claire and I had met three years earlier on the school bus, a couple weeks after she and her mom and little brother moved to our

neighborhood. She was slender and pretty and a little punky. I was just starting to gain weight.

We didn’t know why, but something pulled us together. By the end of the first day of school we had given each other friendship bracelets and were looking forward to spending eighth grade together.

The weird thing was that Claire’s mom, July, was trying to teach herself how to be a witch. She wasn’t secretive about it. She wasn’t like any witch I’d ever met in our family, but she was a witch of sorts.

I had never told Claire about my family.

Now I physically couldn’t.

“I can’t tell you,” I said.

We marched up the block toward Hennings Park.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked.

I shook my head. I wanted her to save me. How could she save me? I wanted her to know what was happening, but I couldn’t tell her.

“Gyp, you’re hurting my hand.”

“I’m sorry.” I let go of her. “Claire… .”

“Your mom did something to you?”

My throat closed up. I couldn’t breathe. I tried to gasp air in, but there was no passage.

I kept walking, and then the sky went dark.

I woke up a little later flat on my back on the sidewalk, Claire’s face above me, her expression horrified and concerned. “Are you all right?” she asked.

I could breathe again. My clothes, hair, forehead were wet with sweat. My throat hurt. Muscles in my legs jumped and jerked even though I was trying to lie still.

“Don’t move. I’ll call an ambulance,” she said.

“No.” I gasped. “Don’t.” I reached for her hand, and she took mine.

“You don’t look well, Gyp. You just fainted. Stumbled and fell right onto the sidewalk before I could catch you. Your head hit the ground. You might have broken something. I better get help.”

“I’ll be all right in a minute.” Now that she mentioned it, the back of my head did ache, and some other things stung and burned. But it was so nice to be lying down.

I savored it for a couple more minutes, just lying there, the breeze cooling my sweaty face, Claire’s hand in mine, my breath easing in and out of me. Then I sat up. One of my elbows was scraped, and the back of my head was pounding now. Apart from that and the now-constant cry of despair from my stomach, I felt all right.

I felt like I didn’t have to powerwalk anymore. At least not this minute.

“I’m okay.” I squeezed Claire’s hand. “Thanks, Claire.”

She shook her head. “You’re sick, Gyp. You look terrible.”

“I’m having kind of a bad week, but I feel better now.”

“You stay here. I’ll see if I can get Mom to come and drive you home.”

I pulled myself to my feet. “It’s only three blocks,” I said. After all this powerwalking, three blocks seemed like nothing.

Claire frowned at me.

I took a couple of steps. My head pounded and my elbow burned, but the rest of me felt all right.

“I’ll be okay,” I said. I started walking. I strolled, in feet, at a leisurely pace I hadn’t been able to use since Mama laid the spell on me. I felt happy just to be able to walk the way I wanted to.

Claire walked beside me. “What did your mom do to you?”

“Don’t ask.” What if I fainted again to prevent myself from answering a question?

“Gyp—”

“It’s nothing.”

“It is not either nothing! Do you want me to call the child protection agency, or whatever it is?”

“God, no!” I stared at her with wide eyes. “No! Absolutely not! It’s nothing like that.”

“Swear?”

I stopped and looked into Claire’s eyes. Okay, I was having maybe the worst week of my life. But was what Mama had done to me technically abuse?

Suppose some government official carne to the house to help me? Mama had all kinds of spells. She could turn people into whatever she liked. She could mess up their minds so they wouldn’t know which way was up. She could make them forget their own names.

Or, most likely, she would just talk to them, persuade them everything was fine, and they’d leave smiling, thrilled to have had a close encounter with Anise LaZelle, local TV celebrity.

And afterward, she might come after me. Without Dad or Uncle Tobias around to make her think twice, who knew what she’d do?

“I swear,” I said. I shuddered.

“Call me if you change your mind.”

“Sure.”

Claire walked me all the way home, came inside and helped me put antibiotic and a bandage on my scrape. Mama had already left for work, and I was glad.

Claire called me as soon as she got home to make sure I was okay. I heard her mom July in the background, telling Claire to tell me I was welcome to come stay at their house if I wanted. So I knew Claire had told her mom something.

I thought the offer over for two seconds. But distance wouldn’t break the spell. I would just act superweird in front of people who didn’t know me well enough. “Thanks. I mean that. I’ll let you know,” I said.

For dinner that night I made a great big salad, looked at it, and put down my fork. I was hungry, but I couldn’t face another bowl full of green stuff.

Later, I picked up a book by reflex, and found myself on the stairs again. Up, down, up, down.

I knew I had lost some weight during hell week; my pants were loose around my waist. I did feel a little stronger than I had before. Short distances that I had balked at walking last week seemed like nothing now.

I hated everything I had eaten since the spell started except for the oranges, apples, and bananas. I was constantly hungry and tired. I hated this life.

Twenty-five minutes later, I stopped running up and down the stairs. Longer session than before; I guessed my endurance had grown.

The only time I had felt free of the spell was after I fainted.

I looked at the stairs. I breathed hard for a little while.

Then I ran up and down some more, under my own power. I ran even though I had a stitch in my side. I ran with breath heaving in and out of me, sweat dripping off me. I ran, though my legs felt like lead.

I ran past the end of my energy.

This time I melted down to the floor before I passed out. Blessed darkness wrapped around me.

I woke in the hospital. Mama sat by the bed. Shadows darkened the skin around her eyes. “What happened, honey? I put failsafes in the spell to protect you. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to see her.

“Gyp,” she whispered.

I waited. After a while, she went away.

When I woke up the next morning, Dad was beside my bed. “Baby, what happened?”

“Why didn’t you call back?”

“Call back?”

“I left you messages every night.”

“I never got any messages. I talked to your mama every night, and she said everything was fine.”

Of course. I only thought I was making those calls. My eyes got hot.

Dad sat on the bed, took my hand. “Gyp, what happened to you? The doctor says you’re malnourished and dehydrated and fatigued. How could that happen?”

“Mama,” I whispered. Sobs started, and they wouldn’t stop. Dad held me. After a long time, my crying slowed. “I can’t go home, Daddy. I can’t go home.”

“What did she do to you?”

I told him about the diet and exercise spell. That was the first time I saw Dad in a white hot rage. He went away, closing the door very softly behind him.

Jasper dropped by in the middle of the afternoon. I didn’t even want to talk to him about what had happened. He asked if he could spell me better, and I asked him please not to do that. I had had enough of people using power on me lately. He gripped my hand and left.