Season of the Witch (24 page)

She writes: “Yo, El. Get your butt back here. I miss your goofy ass.”

Just then I feel a tap on the shoulder. I turn, see Amber Davies. Amber’s this elfin little creature with a dark-brown bob and killer dimples. She runs with the art crowd. She says, “Is that a get-well card for Ella?”

“Yeah.” I show her. “Kind of a kiss-and-tell.”

“Can I sign it?” I hand her the card, pen, and lipstick. As she writes, Amber says, “She was super sweet to me when I got suspended.”

That’s right, I think. Everyone died laughing when Amber got caught coming to school stoned on her parents’ supply. But Ella stuck up for her.

Amber says, “I was feeling totally horrible, but she was like, Aw, man, you get to catch up on the soaps. Which I don’t even watch, but making a joke made it all seem less dire, you know?”

She writes, “For Ella, a way fabulous chick. Miss you!” Then she
draws a little image of Ella with her bubble curls and her Scream bag. Giving the board a big kiss, she says, “I really hope she feels better.”

Amber gives me an idea for my next target: Paul Jarrett, who dealt with a lot of comments after kissing David Horvath. I don’t know Paul that well, and I don’t know if he knows Ella said nice things about him when that happened. But it’s worth a shot.

I track him down in the gym, shooting hoops after school. As the ball clangs against the backboard, I hold up the card and call out, “Hi. I’m doing a get-well card for Ella Schaeffer?”

He holds the ball close, says carefully, “Okay.”

“Yeah. She’s struggling right now, and she’s the kind of person who always says nice things about people?” I get no recognition from Paul’s expression. “So I’m thinking we could support her in return.”

Paul says quickly, “Yeah—cool.”

He hesitates over the lipstick, but does it quickly, then goes back to his jump shot.

I read what he’s written: “Ella—don’t let ’em get you down.”

The school day is over. I’ve gotten everyone I’m going to get today. I head back down to my locker to get my stuff. On the stairs, I hear, “Hey, can I sign?”

I turn, see Cassandra. She’s standing a few steps above me. I call up, “This is for people who wish Ella well.”

“Oh.” Cassandra looks sad. “Yeah, not really me, then.”

She walks down the steps until she reaches me. “Small piece of advice?”

“Very small.”

“The kids here are weak. Easily distracted. Not great material for a coven.”

“You might be surprised,” I tell her.

In the story of
Sleeping Beauty
, the prince has to fight his way through the forest of thorns to save the princess. If he can do that, I tell myself, I can survive the cafeteria at lunchtime.

It’s been a while since I’ve been here on my own. Slam the Slut is no longer everyone’s favorite game, but you never know what could happen. Holding the poster in front of me like a shield, I search out friendly faces. I see Wallace, who’s a fellow reality-TV junkie, and Reina Goldfarb, who’s Ella’s homeroom bestie. Both of them sign the card. But there’s still a whole lot of space left.

But as Reina puts the cap back on the lipstick, Lizbeth Dawson turns from the table where she’s sitting with her rugby buds. “Hey, what’s this?”

“Um, for Ella?” I tell her. “She’s kind of …”

“Having a breakdown,” offers Reina cheerfully. “So we’re sending love.”

Lizbeth says, “Oh, man, I’m sorry. She’s a sweetie. Here”—she holds her hand out for the card—“we’ll sign.”

After the entire rugby team has signed, Lizbeth stands up on the bench and shouts, “Kisses for Ella, y’all. One of our own needs help, let’s do it!”

Suddenly, everybody wants to sign Ella’s card. People egg each other on to do big smacks and nice messages. When the card is held up for the next person, people wave their hands, frantic to
be chosen. Some of the guys balk at the lipstick, but it quickly becomes uncool to refuse. All over the room, you hear laughter as kids tell stories about Ella. Some of them are a little teasing, but they’re all affectionate.

Finally, the card makes its way back to Lizbeth, who gives it back to me. Holding up the card, I call out, “Thanks so much, everybody! I’m going to take these to Ella and—”

Just then Zeena, Isabelle, and Jackson Kinroth enter the cafeteria. The room starts to buzz—no words you can hear, but you sure feel it. Chloe’s friends are here.
She’s
here.

At the sight of me, Zeena narrows her eyes. Isabelle looks panicked. Jackson grins, his hand going to the edge of his shirt. But he stops; Zeena might not appreciate him leering at me in front of her. He looks around.
What’s the joke? What’s the gag? What do we have for her today?

His eyes fall on Wallace Laird, who’s trying to fade into the Formica. Jackson grins, calls out, “Hey, Laird. Why don’t you sit over here? Even you could score with this chick.”

Wallace is confident when he’s with normal people who know he’s gay and are cool with it, but like most of us, he’s not as tough when someone treats him like garbage. He has no defenses against a pure idiot like Jackson. He flushes bright red, tries to pretend he didn’t hear.

I scramble for something sharp and witty to say, something that will take the power away from Jackson and Zeena. Then Isabelle coughs.

In a very small voice, but loud enough to be heard, she says to Jackson, “You’re seriously … gross.”

Then she wobbles over and stands next to me. She looks like she’s going to burst into tears out of nerves—but she’s here.

I say, “Jackson, Wallace over you any day of the week and twice on Sundays.” And Wallace says, “Thanks, but if I have a choice, I’m going for Jeremy Renner.” I pretend to be furious and throw a napkin in his direction.

There’s a ripple of laughter. It grows. And in the laughter, a warmth, a happiness, even. I think of that old song,
War is over if you want it
. I do want it. There may never be a day when I don’t think of Chloe, what she did to me and what I did to her. But I want no more war.

“Hi,” I say to Isabelle.

“Hi,” she says back.

I hold up the card. “Want to sign?”

In my history class, I get Malaya Chen and Bill “Pigman” Pullman. The next morning, I get everyone in my homeroom—and in Ella’s. Her homeroom teacher, Ms. Megai, raises an eyebrow at the lipstick. “Everyone using one lipstick? A bit unsanitary, isn’t it?”

But she signs, saying, “I hope Ella comes back soon. Tell her it’s not the same without her.”

The people who work in the lunchroom all sign. Her whole Spanish class writes, “
Te queremos
,
Ella! Enviamos besos!
”

By the end of the day, I have 153 besos.

One hundred fifty-three kisses to bring Ella back to life.

THAT AFTERNOON, I BRING FIVE posters to Ella’s house. First I show them to her mom when she opens the door. Reading what people wrote, she starts to tear up, then attacks her eyes with fists, wiping the tears away.

“Ella’s got a lot of fans,” I say.

Her mom inhales, like she’s trying to breathe in all the goodwill. Then she waves a hand down the hall. “Go, take them to her.”

Ella looks surprised as I come in; surprise is good, I think. Surprise is interest. I’ll take it.

“Hey,” I tell her. “I brought something for you.”

I set the posters up on her desk, so she can see how many signatures I got. “From everyone at school.”

“Get-well cards,” she says flatly.

“No,” I say. “Not exactly. These are kisses, Ella. One from Pigman Pullman, even. You can’t call that your everyday get-well card. I mean, maybe gross. Maybe cootie-ridden …”

Ella looks away.

I bring the first card to her bed. “At least read the messages,” I tell her.

She sighs. “ ‘Dear Ella, get well soon. Love so-and-so.’ ”

“But look at the so-and-so’s.” I point to Paul Jarrett’s message, then to Amber’s. Ella smiles a little when she sees Amber’s note.

I point to Abby’s message. “From Abby, who would like you to call her.”

Ella reads the good-soul message. Frowns thoughtfully.

“And here’s from your homeroom teacher.” I point to the lip print.

Ella’s eyes widen. She whispers, “You got
her
to wear lipstick?”

“I did,” I say, thrilled with her reaction. “She worried about germs and said the color was a ‘tad bold’ for her, but for you, she’d risk it.”

I get the rest of the cards and spread them on her bed like a blanket. Ella gazes at the messages, lightly touches the kiss marks. “Come back soon, honey! I miss your beautiful smile,” from Linda in the lunchroom. “
Te amo
, Ella!” from Carl Whittaker in her Spanish class. And “I’ve been there, it hurts. Let’s do yogurt!” from Isabelle.

Lizbeth wrote, “Stay strong. Ever thought of playing rugby?”

Ella croaks, “Yeah, right.” But she’s smiling.

She keeps reading, and as she does, she comments more and more. “Oh, sweet,” and “God, I didn’t know he knew I existed,” and “I thought she hated me.” The more she talks, the more the cobwebs in her voice clear.

“You know,” I say, “I didn’t run across a single person who doesn’t like you.”

Ella glances toward the door. Then she pushes the cards away. “You didn’t look in the right place, then.”

She’s talking about her family. At first I don’t know what to say. Ella’s parents love her, but they are too harsh on her.

I say, “Ella, your family might not like the way you eat or the so-called silly things you talk about—”

She looks at me, curious.

“But I don’t care how you eat and I
do
like the things you talk about. And so do a lot of other people.”

“I talk too much about other people,” she says sadly.

“Maybe. But maybe that’s because you never felt like you were interesting enough to talk about.”

She smiles a little. “Well, let’s be real—I’m not.”

“And here’s another thing,” I tell her. “Why did Amber and Paul sign those cards? Because when you talked about them, you stuck up for them. You always stick up for people who are getting slammed. Like when you defended me to Ramona Digby.”

She shakes her head. “I should’ve done more for you. I feel so bad about that.”

“You stayed my friend,” I say. “You cared what happened to me. You tried to stop me from getting stomped by Chloe—remember, you offered to walk me home?”

She nods.

“So don’t say you didn’t do anything.”

She pulls one of the cards closer. Then says, “I shouldn’t have said what I did about Cassandra and Eamonn.”

“I disagree.” Startled, she looks up. “Your whole family was tied up in knots. Everyone was wondering, nobody was saying
anything because”—I swallow—“because it’s really horrible to think about and who could handle any more pain? But it needed to be said, Ella.”

“I didn’t say it because I was so noble,” she says. “At the time, I thought, ‘Look how great I am, revealing the big ugly truth.’ But really, I just wanted my family to hate Cassandra instead of me.”

I think about this. “It can be both, can’t it? I still think it was a good thing, even if it came from a stinky place.”

Ella’s mouth jerks in an almost smile at the word “stinky.” Then she catches sight of herself in the mirror over her bureau. She says, “ ‘Mirror, mirror on the wall—who’s the grossest one of all?’ ”

“Yeah—time to break that mirror. That one belongs to your family. What does yours show?”

“Oh, that’s a really ugly sight.”

“Then let’s change it.”

Ella pushes the cards around with the tip of her finger. “How?”

“Why don’t you try to be as nice to yourself as you are to other people?”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m not
that
nice.”

I point to the cards. “I think all those guys would seriously disagree.”

Ella touches Amber’s and Abby’s notes.

“But there is one thing you have to do for yourself,” I tell her.

“Like what?”

“Like get out of that bed.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Whoa. Seriously?”

“So seriously.”

Ella pretends to consider it. Then carefully she sets the posters
aside. Pushes back the covers. Her creased nightgown is tangled around her knees. Her legs and feet are pale and stubbly on the wrinkled sheets.

“It feels so hard,” she whispers. “I know that’s pathetic, but it feels really, really hard.”

“I’m here for you, Ella,” I tell her. “So are a lot of people.”

She puts her hands flat on the mattress, pushes herself up. “Oog …”

“Stiff, huh?”

“Just a little.” She swings one leg so the foot dangles over the edge. She peers down at the floor. “Remember that game where you’d pretend a part of the floor was the ocean and it was full of sharks? If you touched it, they’d chomp off your toes?”

“Mine was lava pits, but I get you.”

Ella touches her toes to the floor, pulls her foot back up onto the mattress. “I am actually kind of scared,” she says.

“I know.”

She looks at me. Then down at the ground. Lurching sideways, she rolls off the bed, landing not on her feet, but on her ass.

I freeze, terrified Ella will take this as a sign.

But instead she cracks up laughing.

Clapping a hand to her forehead, she gasps, “Oh, my God! Oh my God. I am such a crazy person.”

Laughing, I plop down beside her and I hug her hard. “Ella, you’re the freaking best.”

She looks around. “Did I break my leg?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Oh? Oh, well then. Here goes.” She puts a hand on the side of her bed, lifts herself up. When she’s upright, she plants her
hand on her hip and says, “Here she is, boys! Here she is, world! Here’s …”

“Ella!” we scream.

An hour later, I pass by the living room, where Ella’s mom is on the phone. I hear, “Well, the therapist said—”

Someone interrupts, and she interrupts them back, saying, “I know, Martin, she—”

Then she sees me, widens her eyes, makes a gesture that she wants to talk to me. But I can see she and Mr. Schaeffer are having an argument. So I mouth, “I’ll be back,” and she goes back to talking to Ella’s dad.

Walking home, I think of Ella’s parents. I wish they had clued in to Ella’s feelings before all this happened. But then, I wish I had too.