Jinx (5 page)

“Jeez,” I said. I watched as Tory rotated the needle around in the doll Zach's cotton-stuffed skull. “I wouldn't be so sure it's you he's thinking of. I'd guess he's thinking of taking an Excedrin.”

“Zach hasn't been out with anybody else since I made this doll.”

“You said that already,” I pointed out. Then, reluctantly, since I wasn't sure how Tory would react, I asked, “But has he asked
you
out?”

“Well,” Tory said, putting the doll back into the shoe box. “Not exactly. But I told you, he comes over every—”

“—day after school. Yeah, you said that, too.” I shook my head. “Look, I'm sorry, Tor. But this…this witch thing? It's not a good idea. Trust me on this. Okay?”

“It's not a
witch thing
,” Tory said. “And it's not an
idea
. It's a fact. I'm a witch. You are, too, probably, being a first daughter.”

The acorn in my stomach turned into an orange.

“Tory,” I said. “I mean, Torrance. I'm serious. Can we talk about this some other time? Because I really don't feel too good.”

Tory put the lid back onto the box. “If you're feeling anything, it can only be relief. That at last, you're not alone.” Tory leaned forward and laid a hand over mine.
“You're not a freak, Jinx.”

If only she knew.

“Gosh,” I said. “Thanks. That's…comforting.”

“I realize it's a lot to digest all at once,” Tory went on. “And I'll admit, it was a shock to me, too. The fact is, ever since Grandma first told me that story, the last time we all went down to Florida to see her, I thought
I
was the one. The one Branwen was talking about, the granddaughter her gift would be passed down to. But there's no denying that, after what I saw today, you, Jinx, have the gift as well. And you have to admit, it
is
pretty likely that, after traveling down through so many generations, Branwen's prediction might have gotten a bit garbled. She must have meant Grandma's
daughters' daughters
. Not Grandma's daughter's daughter. Because Grandma has two daughters, and they each have a daughter. So it must be both of us. We're both witches. There can be room for two witches in one generation, right?”

Not waiting for me to answer, Tory went on, “So all you have to do now is learn how to use it. The gift Branwen left for us, I mean. I can totally help you with that. You just have to come to one of our coven meetings. With our powers—yours and mine combined—there's no telling what we'll be able to do. Rule the school, for one thing. But why stop there? God, Jinx. We could
rule the world
.”

I said quickly, “No.”

Tory looked surprised. “Why not?”

“Because.” I took another deep breath. She was going
to be angry. I knew it. But Tory's anger was better than her finding out the truth. “I don't think messing around with magic is such a good thing, you know? I mean, I don't know much about it, but let's just say it really is true—our great-great-whatever-grandmother was a witch, and passed her powers on to us. Is it really fair of us to use them to trap guys? I mean, from what I do know about witchcraft—doesn't it kind of mandate that practitioners use their powers for good instead of evil?”

“How is getting the guy you're crushing on to like you back evil, exactly?” Tory rolled her eyes. “Please. Don't even get me started on that respecting nature, worshiping trees crap—”

It was all I could do to keep from slapping her.

“It isn't crap,” I said, keeping my hands to myself, with an effort. “From what I understand, witchcraft is all about using nature—its energy. If you don't respect what you're drawing power from, that power's going to turn on you. And if you're using that power for something negative—like that doll of yours, the basic purpose of which is to rob Zach of his free will to like whoever he wants to like—then negativity is all you're going to get back.”

Tory didn't look surprised anymore. Now she looked mad.

Tory's pretty lips had all but disappeared, she was pressing them together so tightly. “Fine,” she said. “Fine. I'd hoped you'd be a little more open-minded about all of this. After all, it
is
your heritage. But if you want to be an
unsophisticated hick your whole life, that's your prerogative. Just remember, Jinx. We're here, when you change your mind.”

She stood up, holding the box containing the doll of Zach, and walked away.

“In fact,” she added, when she got to the door. “We're
everywhere
.”

Like I didn't already know it.

“Outta my way.”

I veered to the left of the path, only to hear someone else behind me bark, “Hey, move it!”

I hurriedly stepped out of the way, and the runners passed me by. They were all passing me by. I know I'm not the world's most athletic person, or anything, but this was ridiculous.

The whole thing was ridiculous, actually. My school system back home in Iowa requires only one year of high school physical education, and I'd done mine freshman year.

At the Chapman School, it turns out, only the senior class is exempt from P.E. Which is great—obesity is rampant in America, it's important to stay fit, and all of that.

But that's how I now found myself, my first day at my new school, slogging along the dirt path around the Central Park reservoir—because the Chapman School
does not have a gym, and so they hold their physical education classes in the world's most famous park—in a white T-shirt and a pair of royal blue running shorts that were, in my opinion, embarrassingly short.

As if it's not bad enough that I'm the world's slowest runner. I have to look stupid doing it, too.

So typical of my luck.

“Move over,” someone panted behind me. So I did. This time, it was a fleet-footed blond girl who jogged past. I watched her bobbing ponytail as it disappeared around a gentle bend in the trail, and wondered what it was about me that had already made me such a social outcast at the Chapman School.

At first I thought it couldn't be my clothes that were making me such a pariah, since everyone at Chapman has to wear a uniform.

Then I realized it could be my jewelry—or lack thereof. Most of the girls in my classes—including the blonde who'd just passed me—had diamond studs in their ears, some of them the size of my pinky nails. I highly doubted they were cubic zirconium.

And their watches…I had been amazed to learn that Tory's was a Gucci. Chanelle owned a Rolex. Nobody at Chapman seems to have ever heard of Swatch or Timex.

And apparently loafers from Nine West are not considered appropriate footwear for a Chapman sophomore. Even though the only difference I could detect between my shoes and Tory's Ferragamos was about four
hundred dollars, there's something wrong with mine, whereas Tory's are acceptable.

Apparently the fact that my shoes are from the wrong place, and I own no expensive jewelry, coupled with the giant bruise on my forehead—always an attractive accessory—and my complete inability to enter or exit a classroom without either tripping over or banging into someone or something were largely to thank for my loser status.

Even this far from home, it turned out, I could not escape my nickname, since Tory scathingly called me by it when I dropped a can of soda—which promptly exploded—at lunch in the cafeteria my very first day, and everyone, since then, had followed her example by calling me Jinx.

Jinx. I'm always going to be Jinx.

You're not a hundred-dollar bill
, Grandma was fond of telling us kids during her frequent visits from her retirement community in the Sunshine State.
Not everybody's going to like you.

Wasn't that the understatement of the year. Like it wasn't hard enough being a preacher's daughter. I mean, people either expect you to be a priss, or totally slutty, like Lori Singer's character from the movie
Footloose
.

And it was like people could just…tell. About the preacher's daughter thing. Maybe it really was my country-fresh looks. Maybe it was the violin—I'd joined the school's orchestra, the only class where I remotely seemed to fit
in…although waves had been made when I scored second chair straight off the bat.

Like it's my fault I'm a geek who actually enjoys practicing.

Or maybe it was my unfamiliarity with Kanye West and
The Hills
and other music and shows we aren't allowed to listen to or watch in my house, because of my younger siblings.

Whatever it was—all of the above or something I hadn't even considered yet—it was like someone had rubber-stamped
OUTCAST
across my forehead, and most of the student population at Chapman responded accordingly.

But at least, out here in the wilds of Central Park, there weren't a whole lot of people to see me mess up, trip over a tree root as I ran, or whatever. Of course, it was just my luck that I'd started school on the first day of the Presidential Fitness test, part of which entailed a timed run. I had really thought the P.E. instructor was joking when he'd pointed at the reservoir—which is more like a lake, in my opinion—and informed us that we were to run around it twice.

Was he kidding?

Apparently not, since the rest of the class—with so many people, and all dressed the same, and me so shy, unwilling to meet anyone's gaze, I hadn't even been able to get a good look at any of them to size up the competition, so to speak—took off, pounding along the dirt trail.
I'd had to hurry to catch up.

Still, it wasn't completely unpleasant. It was weird to be in so much wilderness—with trees so thick all around me—and yet still be able to see skyscrapers towering above the top branches.

And there were other people on the trail besides the ones from my class. There were tourists, enjoying a stroll in the park with their fanny packs and cameras, and groups of little school kids, visiting with their teachers on their way to the American Museum of Natural History, and even horseback riders, in their jodhpurs and black helmets, trotting right alongside the joggers.

It was actually all kind of cool.

Well, except for the running part.

And then a guy's voice from behind me said, “Hey.”

Thinking it was someone else who wanted me to move over—even though I was as far over on the trail as I could get without going off it—I looked back, annoyed…

And stumbled over a root.

“Whoa.” The runner slowed and bent over. “You all right, Cousin Jean from Iowa?”

I hadn't fallen—at least. I'd stumbled, but I hadn't fallen flat on my face, or even hurt myself, for once. I straightened and said, hoping he couldn't see how hard my heart was thumping (and not just from the exercise) while at the same time trying not to smile too broadly—“Hi, Zach.”

He grinned down at me. Like me, he was dressed in a white T-shirt. But unlike me, his royal blue shorts didn't look too short at all. They looked just right.

More than all right. They looked
great.

“I didn't know you were in this class,” I said. Then I knit my brow. “
Why
are you in this class? I thought you were a junior.”

Zach shrugged. “Chapman requires three years of P.E. So here I am.”

“Oh,” I said intelligently.

Some runners came tearing around the bend. Zach grabbed me by the arm and pulled me off the path, into some scrubby brush.

“Jeez,” he said, looking after the runners, clearly annoyed. “What do they think this is, the Olympics?”

I said, “Well…” I couldn't think of anything else to say. “We better join them, I guess, or the president will be disappointed in our lack of fitness.”

Zach looked at his watch. I couldn't tell if it was a Rolex, like everyone else's at Chapman. But it looked pretty impressive.

“Tell you what,” he said. “I don't actually believe the president cares about my level of fitness. Let's get out of here.”

I looked back at the path. “But if we don't finish our run…”

“Oh, we will,” Zach said, still grinning. “We'll come huffing and puffing along right with the best of them. Only I know a shortcut….”

I looked at the dirt trail, and then back at Zach. I have never in my life skipped a class. I mean, I'm a preacher's daughter.

But it kind of hit me then: Mom wasn't exactly around.

Fortunately the knot in my stomach—which had been growing and shrinking all day, depending on the circumstances—was apparently dormant just then…though whether because of Zach's presence, or in spite of it, I had no idea.

So I said, “Well, all right. If you promise we won't get in trouble. I don't want to get in trouble my first day.”

He held up three fingers. “Scout's honor.”

I smiled. “You were never a Boy Scout. I bet they don't even
have
Boy Scouts in New York.”

He said, “Well, they probably do, but you're right. I never was one.”

Zach's shortcut took us, instead of deeper into the wilds of the park, as I'd been afraid it might, onto a paved sidewalk which wasn't exactly crowded with people, but which had enough ice cream vendors and tourists hanging around it to make me feel at ease. In fact, Zach strolled right up to one of the ice cream vendors, then turned to ask me, “What'll it be?”

I stooped to look at the photographs on the side of the cart. I didn't recognize a lot of the cones. Even the
ice cream
in New York is different.

“Gee,” I said, looking at a massive red, white, and blue ice pop. “What's
that
one?”

“Two Jumbo Jetstars,” Zach said to the vendor. To me,
he said, “Otherwise known as Rockets. I can't believe you've never had one before. What do they eat back in Iowa, anyway? Potato cones?”

Offended on behalf of my state, I said indignantly, “That's Idaho. And there's lots of good ice cream in Iowa. Like cherry-dipped cones.”

Zach shrugged. “Bet you guys don't have gelato.”

“We most certainly do.”

“And I know what a cherry dip is. I also know it's disgusting, and certainly nothing I'd ever brag about ingesting.” The vendor handed Zach two pops, and Zach passed him a five-dollar bill he pulled out from his gym sock. Which is when I realized I had no cash on me.

“My treat,” Zach said, when I mentioned this. Then he presented my Jumbo Jetstar with a gallant flourish. “It's the least I can do, considering you saved my life. If these were ancient times, I think I'd owe you eternal servitude, or something.”

I felt myself turning as red as the top third of the ice pop I held. “I didn't save your life,” I said.

“Yeah?” Zach looked amused. “Suit yourself, then. How do you like your Rocket?”

It tasted like every other ice pop I'd had in my life, but I said, to be polite, “It's very good.”

“Told you.”

The ice pop was actually cooling me off a little. It was hot for April, and now that we'd left the shade of the trees, the sun beat down on us. The warm weather had
brought out Rollerbladers, as well as ice cream vendors and nannies pushing baby strollers. I even saw a few people sunbathing.

“So,” Zach said, as we strolled. “Your bruise looks better.”

I put a hand to it self-consciously. He was only being nice, of course. The bruise, if anything, looked worse than ever. Zach had seen it the day before, when he and his parents had come over to the Gardiners' to see how I was doing. To my complete and utter mortification, they'd brought with them two dozen pink roses which they'd presented to me with their thanks for what they perceived that I'd done for Zach.

I had tried to be gracious, the way my mom would have wanted me to be. But it was hard. I mean, everyone—not just Tory—thought I'd done this huge, noble thing, thrusting myself in the path of this out-of-control bicyclist. When really, all I'd done was just been my typical luckless self. The whole time Zach and his parents had been there, I'd been unable to keep from wishing that a hole would open up in the Gardiners' parquet floor and swallow me alive. Zach's parents were both supersmart, his father an entertainment lawyer, his mother a tax lawyer, and they were certainly very nice people.

But I would have infinitely preferred it if they'd stayed home. I'm hardly the world's most sociable person, and I had felt extremely uncomfortable being the focus of so much attention.

It was too bad, in fact, that it had been me, and not Tory, who'd been there when the bike messenger had nearly hit Zach. Had Tory, and not me, saved Zach, she would have enjoyed all the fuss, the roses, the concern. Instead, Tory had been forced to experience it all secondhand, leaning against the wall with one fishnetted knee propped up, a tiny, catlike smile on her lips, watching as I uncomfortably replied to Zach's parents' polite attempts at conversation.

Zach, for his part, had sat on the white couch in the Gardiners' den with a Coke cradled between his hands, contributing little, but smiling quite a lot. Later, Tory had pointed out that Zach had been staring the whole time at her knee, the one she'd propped up. Because, you know, he wants her so badly, or something.

I had a little different impression—that Zach had been staring at
me
. Because every time I'd looked up, his gaze had seemed to meet mine.

I didn't mention this to Tory, however. And probably, I was wrong, and he
had
been looking at Tory's knee.

Still, everyone had had plenty of opportunity to look at my bruise, analyze its size and color, and estimate how long it would be before it went away. I had almost considered packing up and going back to Iowa (not really, of course).

But it did make me miss my own family, who take my absurd brushes with fate (and things like bike messengers) in stride. Even reading and replying to several e-mails from my best friend, Stacy, from the laptop
Uncle Ted had loaned me later that evening hadn't helped.

But then I remembered that being presented with two dozen roses by the parents of a boy I (might as well admit it) was crushing on—and whom I knew would never like me back because of his own crush on a very cute German au pair—was infinitely better than what was going on at home.

Now, I looked down at my Jumbo Jetstar (wishing more than ever that, all those months ago, I had made a very different choice), and said, “Thanks.”

“What I haven't quite figured out yet,” Zach said, as we strolled past a pond in which people—even some grown men—were sailing little model boats, “is why everybody in your family calls you Jinx.”