Season of the Witch (10 page)

Or—what if something truly awful happens to Oliver?

Two cars at the corner: Con Ed and a bakery van. If the bakery van moves first, Oliver will be fine. If it’s Con Ed, he’ll be seriously effed up.

The bakery van moves first. I feel an odd sense of relief.

Only I hope that doesn’t mean
nothing
will happen to him.

When we get to school, I look for some sign of catastrophe. On the stairwell, in the hall, I strain to listen in on conversations, expecting to hear

Oliver fell down a flight of stairs and broke his neck!

Oliver’s cat scratched him and cut a vein in his throat and he bled to death!

Oliver choked on a walnut and died!

But it’s all homework and TV and who said what to who on Facebook. It seems there has been no great tragedy involving Oliver.

Ella asks, “Why are you staring at everyone?”

I blush. “No, nothing.”

Stella Eberly walks past us. I smile hi. Stella used to smile back. But not today. Not since I’ve become the school tramp.

Stupid, Toni, I think as I head to homeroom. Stupid, stupid Toni. Nothing has happened. You have no power. Today will be just another day of Slam the Slut.

Why did I ever believe Cassandra?

Then I see Chloe, Zeena, and Isabelle standing by the water fountain. I stop, try to feel their vibe. Chloe is not crying or hysterical—which she certainly would be if Oliver’s cat had slashed his jugular and he was dead.

But she definitely seems … worried. For one thing, she hasn’t even noticed I’m here.

Inching closer, I hear Chloe say, “Yeah, he texted me saying he wasn’t sure what was wrong.…”

I stop dead, not caring if Chloe sees me. Something is wrong with Oliver. Actually, really wrong. Which means …

Which means the spell worked.

I did it. I have power.

Then Zeena sees me, nudges Chloe in warning. Chloe looks and snarls, “
What?
”

“She just wants to know about Oliver,” Zeena sneers.

“Sluts have no self-control,” adds Isabelle.

In real rage, Chloe swings her fist backward; it slams into a locker. She screams, “This is none of your business. Get away—or I will
hurt
you!”

My body is obedient, I start walking. But this time it’s different. This time, I keep my eyes on Chloe. This time, I’m not afraid. When Chloe said she’d hurt me, what I thought was
And I’ll hurt you back
.

At lunchtime, Ella and I go to Nuts for Soup. As we walk down Eighty-First Street, Ella says excitedly, “Did you hear what happened to Oliver?”

I pretend to have to think about it. “Something with his voice?”

“Yeah!” Ella’s eyes widen and she leans forward. “He totally cannot talk. It started last night and they have no idea why.”

“Wow,” I say in a bored voice.

“And he’s freaking out because his big interview thing is in a few days.”

“Gee.” I reach in my bag and check my phone. As I do, I can feel Ella watching me closely.

“I’m registering total noninterest here,” she says, puzzled.

“You register right,” I tell her.

She looks doubtful, but says, “Well, hey, good for you.”

I nod as if I couldn’t care less. But it’s hard not to punch the air and shriek, “Yes!” I asked the spirits to take away Oliver’s voice—and they did. I wanted him to miss his Amnesty interview—and he will.

It’s amazing. It’s … magic.

Ella says, “Would it be okay if we ditched the soup? I could kill for a cheeseburger.”

There even seems to be less slut baiting today. Either Chloe’s all worried about Oliver so she forgot to send out the daily torture memo—“Everyone eat bananas in front of her at lunch—slowly!”—or maybe I don’t come off as such a victim anymore.

After school, I see Cassandra as I leave the building. She’s leaning against a truck, reading
The Crucible
. As I approach, she smiles.

We head for the park.

“So …,” I say carefully after a few blocks, “looks like things are working out.”

“I have no idea,” she says blankly. “Let’s find out.”

We climb to the top of the rock. From up here, we can see little kids on the playground. One pushes another off the swing and she cries, runs to her mom. The other kid just takes the swing.

Cassandra crosses her legs, says, “Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“Call him,” she says simply.

I dig my phone out of my bag. “Going to be a little weird if I call and Oliver can’t speak.”

“That’s the final proof that it worked.”

I nod. Punching Oliver’s number, I feel Cassandra, excited and expectant, next to me. That hum.

I can’t wait!

I know, me too!

“Ringing,” I whisper.

She squeezes my wrist.

“Hello?”

A man’s voice. It’s a nice voice, slow, a little tired. Oliver’s dad.

“Hi,” I say. “My name’s Toni. I’m a friend of Oliver’s.”

“Oh.” Hesitation. Worry. I can hear it. It thrills me.

“He wasn’t at school today, so I wanted to call. See if he’s okay.”

From Cassandra, a surge of pleasure. I am lying so well.

“Ah, well, I’m afraid Oliver’s not—” He interrupts himself. “He’s fine. He will be fine.”

“Can I talk to him?”

“No, that’s what I was going to say. I’m afraid you can’t. Oliver’s having a little trouble with his voice.”

I have no idea what heroin feels like, but I can’t imagine it’s better than the rush that courses through me at that moment. I feel in complete control of the entire universe. I know everything worth knowing. I am untouchable, but no one is beyond my power. I reach out, find Cassandra’s hand. Our fingers curl around one another, the rings of our palms sealed together.

“Oh, man,” I say sympathetically.

“Yeah, the doctors aren’t sure what it is.” I grin, all teeth. “They feel it’s stress related and almost certainly not permanent. But obviously, it’s very upsetting.”

“Sure.”

“So I’m afraid he can’t talk to you. I’ll tell him you called, though.”

“No, don’t bother,” I say. “I’ll see him in school. Let the poor guy rest his vocal cords.” I raise my eyebrows at Cassandra, who grins maniacally. “I hope he’s taking it easy,” I add.

Oliver’s dad says, “Well, of course he’s very worried that he might miss the interview on Monday.”

Might. Something horrible occurs to me: What if they can just reschedule it and all of this has been for nothing?

I say, “Well, they’ll set up another one, right?”

“Uh, not really. If he’s not better soon, Oliver has to give his slot to someone else.”

“Oh, no,” I sigh.

“Yes, it’s a bad thing.”

“Tell him I’m sorry,” I manage to say before hanging up.

I toss the phone down and we scream as one, a long shriek of
total happiness. Seizing each other’s hands, we dance, hips swaying, feet twitching, singing, “Da, da, da …,” like we’re doing some crazy cha-cha. Cassandra spins me under her arm. I spin her. We dance back-to-back, hands joined. I sing to the sky, “We did it! We did it!”

As we leave the park, I say, “Have you ever done that before? Like—had it work?”

Cassandra hesitates. “Not like that,” she says finally. “Not as well.”

I want so badly for her to tell me what she tried before, how it didn’t work, how I helped her make it work. But I can tell she’s not up for revealing right now.

“We could try it again,” I suggest. “I mean, hey, you helped me. Your turn now.”

She smiles. “Nah, nothing I need right now.”

“Okay,” I say. “But I owe you.”

Cassandra says, “I’ll remember that.”

IT’S LATE BY THE TIME I get home. As I come through the door, I hear my mom say, “Here she is, Henry—” and my dad say, “Ah, thank God!”

“What?” I say, looking at both of them.

“The game,” says my mom brightly, with only a hint of sarcasm. “The big, big game!”

“Oh, right.” Game night. Thursday nights, we get takeout and watch a basketball game. One of our very few family traditions. I was so excited about the Oliver spell, I forgot today was game night.

Now my dad’s looking at me anxiously. My mom’s clearly ready to blow off our Thursday-night ritual. Am I going to join her and refuse to participate in family stuff, to show him how he wrecked everything?

Another time, I might have. But I feel like the universe was very generous to me today, and I want to be generous back. So I say, “Cool! Who’s playing?”

“The Mavs versus the Lakers.” My dad lowers his voice and narrows his eyes as he says “the Lakers.”

My parents do not root for winners. Because we live in New York, they root for the Knicks. But they’ll give their heart to any team that has a lot of old players looking for a title, so-so players that don’t get a lot of press, and little guys that try hard. My dad hates L.A. with a passion. My mom detests Miami. If you’re powerful, arrogant, and win a lot, you won’t have my parents as fans. I bet LeBron James is very sad about that.

So tonight, we abandon the kitchen and the dining room table and move to the living room. My dad sits on the couch, my mom takes an armchair. I kneel on the floor so I can put my dinner on the coffee table. As we eat Chinese food and watch Dallas versus L.A., we are united. Every time Kobe Bryant goes for a shot, my mother points two fingers at the TV and makes a
zzzt, zzzt
noise to put a hex on him.

Kobe’s making free throws. My mom says,
“Zzzt, zzzt …”

I say, “Ma, seriously.”

Kobe misses. “See?” says my mom.
“Zzzt, zzzt.”

He makes the next shot.

“It’s hard to get the hex all the way cross-country,” she says.

“Sure, Ma.”

My dad is smiling, amused by our back-and-forth. This is turning out to be a good night for us. The game fills in the silence. We can put our evil thoughts onto guys we’ve never met and know that the worst thing that can happen is someone loses.

My dad loves Dirk Nowitzki and Jason Terry. Not only are they old, but six years ago, when they had their best shot at winning, they lost in the finals and the other team celebrated on their
court. This level of loserdom and humiliation earned them my dad’s loyalty for life, even though they did win a championship last year.

Dirk goes to the foul line. My dad leans forward. He gets super intense about foul shots. I guess because it feels like they happen in slow motion, it’s like the whole victory/defeat drama plays out over a minute.

Dirk crouches. Shoots. Misses.

“They could have used that point,” my dad mutters.

“He’ll make the next one,” I say.

But Dirk misses that one, too. My dad settles back in his chair. My mom glances at him.

The Mavericks play badly. Missed shots. Lots of turnovers. L.A. takes a serious lead. My mom starts getting restless.

My dad looks up. “What?”

“No—I’m just thinking about some things I promised to do.…” She waves her hand. “Never mind.”

My dad keeps looking at her, even when she goes back to staring at the screen.

I watch the game. Dallas has come back a little bit. But there’s only three minutes left to play. If they’re going to win, they’re going to have to make every shot.

My dad says to me, “Remember when you were little? You’d stand on one foot as a good-luck thing?”

“Oh, yeah.” I smile, pleased that his head is in the happy past instead of the weird present.

Wanting to keep it there, I stand up, lift one leg. “You watch, Terry’s going to make this shot.”

“Uh-huh,” says my mom skeptically.

“You watch,” I say. “I have magic powers.”

I try to believe that as I wobble on my one foot. In my head, I chant, Make the shot, make the shot, make the shot. Then, You win, we win. You win, we win. I’m not even sure what that means, but it feels like it’s coming from that place where the spells start to grow.

Terry lifts up, makes the shot. My dad crows, “Hey!” All of a sudden, there’s energy in the room again.

Scrambling back to my seat, I say to my mom, “Told you.”

“You did.”

“Here comes Barea,” says my dad. Barea is the Mavs’ little guy. Practically my height.