Season of the Witch (13 page)

“Well, she better,” Ella blazes.

All day, I can feel people checking out my face. They want to ask, but no one does. No one has to, really. Everyone knows what happened: Chloe finally stomped the slut.

I do not see Chloe. Or Zeena. Or Isabelle. I suspect they are avoiding me.

They know what they did to me is serious. They could get in real trouble.

They will. Just not the kind they think.

“We have to weaken her,” says Cassandra. We are sitting opposite each other, cross-legged on her rug. We both have cups of her strange, bitter grass tea. The door is shut and locked. The curtains are drawn.

Then she says, “Chloe is strong. Before we strike, we have to work to decrease her power.”

“How do we do that?” I ask.

Cassandra smiles. “Increase her fear.”

I smile back. “With you so far.”

“Chloe may think she’s in control now. We have to show her she’s not. As I see it, she’s vulnerable on two fronts.” Cassandra draws a line through the shag of her rug. “One: the school. You could get her expelled for what she did. We have to make her believe that might happen.”

Cassandra draws a second line. “Two: Oliver. She’s so terrified he wants you back? Good. Let’s up the terror quotient.”

I shake my head. “If I start flirting with Oliver—”

“What?” Cassandra gazes at me. “She’ll beat you up?”

I nod agreement.

“Up till now,” says Cassandra, “Chloe’s been on the attack. We have to change that. You have to make her feel that she’s gone too far. This time, you’re coming after her.”

“How do we do that?”

I wait for Cassandra’s answer. But she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she fixes her gaze on me. I meet her eyes, wanting instinctively to show her I am not afraid. Her expression is intense, searching. I glance away for a moment; when I look back, Cassandra is still staring.

“What?” I say finally.

She doesn’t answer, just keeps her eyes locked on mine. I swear, I feel heat. Danger.

Panicking, I cry, “What, Cassandra? Just tell me, for God’s sake—”

She breaks the gaze. Laughs.

“That,” she says, “is a hex.”

Before I leave, I ask, “Do we know what we’re doing? I mean, what are we aiming for, exactly?”

“Her complete and utter destruction,” says Cassandra.

I totally cannot tell: is she joking or not?

Then she laughs. “No, seriously. When you say ‘gone forever,’ I get it that you mean metaphorically, not actually … dead.”

I pretend to think. “Hm, not so sure …”

“How about powerless?” offers Cassandra, as if she’s a waitress.
Would madame prefer the chocolate mousse or the cheesecake today?

“Maybe a little humiliated?” I suggest jokingly.
Madame will have Tête de Chloe on a blood-soaked platter, please
.

Then I remember the Threefold Law. That whatever you send out comes back to you at three times the power. Maybe I need to rethink.

Only, what Cassandra said about Oliver, how he silenced me so it was just payback when I silenced him, counts here too. Chloe attacked me and left me feeling dead inside. I remember sitting on this same rock, how lifeless and empty I felt. Like I was absolutely nothing.

That’s what I want for Chloe.

When I get home, I practice hexes in the mirror. Trying to see only my eyes, I draw closer and closer to my reflection. My eyes begin to ache; I feel dizzy. When I am close, they start to merge, form a single circle of sight, like the barrel of a gun.

The evil eye.

The next day, I am catching a drink at the water fountain when I see them. Chloe and Zeena and Isabelle.

Isabelle actually gasps. Right away, she turns and finds something on a nearby bulletin board to stare at.

Chloe is frozen. So am I. My heart is pounding. My feet are numb. I want more than anything to run away, to not be near them.

But that’s exactly what I must not do.

My hand grips the water fountain.

I fix my eyes on Chloe. Only Chloe. She’s the power center, but she takes strength from the other two. If I can isolate her, she will be weakened.

I see surprise in her eyes as they meet mine. She opens her mouth, then closes it.

The water is still running. I will not take my thumb off the button. I imagine it’s Chloe’s heart I’m pressing, pressing until it bursts.

You know what you did, I say in my mind. You know. And know this: payback is coming.

Zeena lifts her elbow to nudge Chloe. Chloe angrily shoves it away.

“Come on, guys,” she says, and stumbles through the hallway door.

Use others
. That’s another thing Cassandra told me. Everyone likes to talk about me? Fine. Let them talk. Only this time, I’m giving them the story.

So when Nina Watts sidles up to me after chemistry and says, “Any updates on the Oliver sitch?” I look from side to side, supposedly to make sure no one but Nina is listening. Knowing the universal sign for good dirt, Nina leans in.

“I don’t know,” I sigh. “It’s so messed up.”

Her eyes widen. “How so?”

I do another look-around as we settle by the hallway windows. “Well, you know Chloe’s a little … angry with me?”

Nina frowns. “Uh-huh.”

“And I’m like, over it. Oliver—she can have him.” Nina looks disappointed; she is hoping for a torrid triangle. Instead, I give her, “Here’s the thing.”

She perks up.

I lean in, whisper, “He won’t leave me alone.”

“Oh, my God,” she hisses.

“I know. And I’m like, Dude, seriously, it’s over.”

“And he says what?”

“He misses me. He wants us to be—” I roll my eyes:
Who knows
. I am, I tell myself, merely quoting what Oliver actually said. If it lands him in a pile of doo-doo, so be it. Welcome to my world, Oliver.

“And you’re … not into it?” Nina wants to get the story straight before she passes it on to everyone at school.

“No,” I say firmly. “It was one thing when he and Chloe were split up and he felt sad—”

“I thought she was in Europe.”

“Yeah, that’s her version,” I say sarcastically. “But they’re together now and I have zero interest. I wish he would get that.”

Nina raises an eyebrow. “He probably wants out with the she-devil.
I mean, who could blame him? She’s one harsh lady when she wants to be.”

Then she leans back in. “Hey—between you and me—did she go crazy on you in a bathroom?”

I have thought and thought about how to play this. I say slowly, “Between you and me? Yes.”

I pull back my hair to show the bruise. Nina says, “Holy—”

“I think Chloe’s losing it,” I say. “Part of me is actually worried about her.”

“Worried? Screw her. Are you going to tell the school? You should. It’s insane.”

“I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet.”

Then I touch her arm. “Do me a favor? Don’t spread this around.”

“Oh, I won’t,” says Nina earnestly. “Although people should know how crazy she is.” She points to my forehead. “That’s so not right.”

Finally, I think. People are seeing it my way.

I know what time Chloe leaves for lunch. I know because I used to make every effort to avoid the lobby when she was headed in or out. On Wednesday, at precisely 1:10, I make sure to be there.

Right outside the office of Ms. Petrie, the guidance counselor.

I wait until Chloe comes out of the stairwell, wait until she’s actually seen me. Then I call out, “Thanks, Ms. Petrie, I will.” Then I walk slowly toward Chloe. I keep my eye on her every step of the way. Chloe knows that if I’m going to rat her out, Ms. Petrie is the person to talk to.

I can see from her expression that she’s trying to come up with something cutting. “Snitch,” “Whiner,” something like that.

Only she’s too scared. In her entire life, Chloe has never been called out for her crap. Never once been held responsible. And now she thinks she might be.

“Everyone knows,” I murmur as I pass by.

The next day, Wallace reports that Imelda the cafeteria lady accidentally splashed some tomato sauce on Chloe’s sleeve as she was passing a plate of ravioli to Zeena. Chloe went ballistic, shrieking at Imelda and threatening to get her fired.

This is serious. It’s one thing for Chloe to abuse all of us; it’s another for her to pick on people who work in the cafeteria. A, it’s supremely uncool. And B, they won’t put up with it.

Wallace says, “Good thing Isabelle pulled her out of there; those ladies were ready to take a ladle to Chloe’s nonexistent behind.”

“Chloe seems very stressed out these days,” I say serenely.

That afternoon, Ella says, “Okay, I know you don’t care about Oliver—”

“Correct.”

“But Rachel Davenport told me that Eric Koslowski told her that Oliver found out what Chloe did to you and he’s, like, totally freaked.”

Oliver freaked, I think. What else is new?

Then Ella adds, “So maybe he’ll do something.”

“Ella, if Oliver were a knight, he’d only show up when the princess was toast and the dragon was picking her out of his teeth.”

As I say it, I realize that’s the kind of joke Cassandra might make.

Ella hears it too. After a moment, she says, “How’s Cass?”

I try to look startled. “I don’t know.”

“No, I just thought … maybe you guys were getting to be friends.”

I do not want to outright lie to Ella. “Maybe friend
ly
.”

She nods hurriedly. Then blurts out, “Just …”

“What?”

Her hands jump into the air. “No, I get it. You guys are totally cool, you should be friends? Only …”

Don’t forget about me
.

I touch my head to hers. “You’re still my everything, babes.”

Cassandra’s parents are going to visit friends for the weekend. “Because sitting in someone else’s house not talking about Eamonn is going to be so much better than sitting here and not talking about him,” says Cassandra that afternoon as we make final plans in the park.

“Do they mind you’re not going?” I ask, thinking my parents would never let me spend the weekend on my own.

Cassandra says, “Are you kidding? They’re relieved. So come over Saturday and we’ll do it. Do you have the item yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Get it, Antonia. We’re running out of time. How’s the hexing going?”

I nod. “I think she’s on the run.”

“That’s where we want her. Just get the item and we’re set.”

The item. Something of or worn close to the body. On Friday in English, I consider my options. I could steal a piece of Chloe’s clothing. I could steal her water bottle and hope for backwash. Collect nail clippings. Hand her a towel to wipe her sweat off. It won’t be easy.

Later that morning I’m on my way to art class when I hear shouts coming from the gym. Drawn by the metallic clang of a ball on wood, the squeak of sneakers, and cries of “I got it, I got it,” I peer through the glass window.

Basketball. There’s Chloe, laughing as she misses a pass.

How can she laugh? I wonder. How can she feel happy and careless when she’s wrecked my life?

I crack the gym door, look inside. In the corner, a heap of backpacks. I spot Chloe’s Marc Jacobs bag right away. She’s placed it carefully on top so it doesn’t get squashed by the other, lesser bags.

Mr. Finley, the gym teacher, is a fanatic about stretching. Everyone stretches before a game, everyone stretches after. And it’s all very orderly. You line up in two rows with your backs to the door. All eyes on Mr. Finley. Who in turn watches closely.

While everyone’s bent over, stretching their hamstrings, I creep in the door, snatch Chloe’s bag. It takes two seconds to find
her hairbrush. I grip the bristles in my fist, pull. Get a lovely, thick tangle of hair.

Then I put the brush back in the bag, toss the bag back on the heap.

Chloe’s flip-out in the cafeteria does not go unnoticed. As Ella tells me at lunch, “They were going to suspend her. For real. But her parents said she was having this really hard time, so the principal let her get away with writing Imelda an apology.”

“Having a hard time?” I’m trying to play uninterested about Chloe, but this gets me. “That spoiled brat—give me a break. She’s got people so snowed.”

“I don’t know,” Ella says uncertainly. “I saw her in the bathroom yesterday and she was popping a pill. Like, a prescription.”

“ ‘Mommy, Daddy, I’m so upset, let me take some lovely downers.…’ ”

Ella looks at me anxiously. “Plus I heard Oliver’s dumping her. And that he’s already crushing on someone else?”

I can feel Ella’s curiosity.
Is that someone you?

I say, “It’s called karma. Those who fling poo shall get it back—right in the kisser.”

That afternoon, I leave school with Chloe’s hair in a sealed pouch. Everything will be different when I come back on Monday, I think. Better.

That’s when I see them on the corner. Oliver and Chloe.

Oliver’s shoulders are hunched, his head down, one hand gripping his backpack. A turtle, I think, shrinking into his shell. Chloe is standing in front of him. I can’t hear what she’s saying. But from the way she’s throwing her arms around and jerking her head, I would guess it’s nothing nice.