Season of the Witch (3 page)

“That’s hard,” I say.

“Yeah, it is. Or … it was. A week ago? He
died
.”

My brain goes on the fritz. I can’t even think the obvious polite thing to say. All I can think is, Died. Someone died. A little kid
died
. How can I be worried about my stupid crap when a little eight-year-old kid is dead?

Finally I manage to ask, “What happened?”

Ella starts walking again. “I really have no idea. It happened my last week at camp. I didn’t find out till I got home and my parents
told me. They said he had a seizure or something and drowned in the bathtub. I was like, Why didn’t you call me? They were all, Oh, it would have been too upsetting for you—meaning, God forbid you don’t lose every last ounce you can. But it sucks. I didn’t even get to go to his funeral.”

“Were you guys close?”

Ella makes a face. “Um, not amazingly. My mom’s super competitive with Cassie’s mom, and there’s always drama, drama. And Eamonn was cute but a little hard to be around. Still …”

Still, you want to be included in your own family. I nod. “Your poor cousin,” I say. “Was she there when it happened?”

“Yeah, she was,” says Ella. “In fact, she was supposed to be taking care of him. Their parents weren’t home.”

“Oh, God. She must feel awful.”

“I wouldn’t know,” says Ella. “Everyone’s like, Don’t bring it up, whatever you do! My mom said, Your aunt and uncle are very fragile right now, leave them be. Cassie won’t share with me, she thinks I’m a grade-A moron. Which, you know, maybe I am, but she could be nicer about it. All I heard was that she wants everyone to call her Cassandra now. No more Cassie.”

Weirdly, I get that. Wanting to be a different person after something awful happens to you. Thinking, Yeah, everything’ll be fine if I’m not the person who went through that hideous crap.

Maybe I should change my name too. We’re a block away from school now. It’d be nice to be able to say, “The craziness this summer? The Oliver/Chloe drama? No, that was some other girl. Toni, yeah. I’m not her. I’m … Anastasia.”

At the last crossing, I think, If the light changes to green before I count to five, I will be safe. If it changes after five, I am in danger.

One, two, three …

Please change, I think. Seriously, universe. Do me a favor.

Four, five … six … seven …

It goes green.

I am so screwed.

OUR SCHOOL IS THE DEKALB Community School. It was started by professors at DeKalb University so they’d have a cheap private school to send their kids to, although they’ve started letting nonstaff kids in if they pay more. My dad teaches history at DeKalb, which is why I’m here. Ella’s mom teaches math, her dad economics—which Ella says makes her feel even stupider than she is.

Our building used to be an old Catholic school. My mom says that when they moved in, the place was “a horror,” with green walls and dark stairways with metal stairs, that felt like a prison. There were all these crosses and religious statues in the classrooms. “All these saints in death agony and Marys on the half shell,” my mom says.

DeKalb got rid of the statues, painted all the walls white, and replaced the Join the Jesuits posters with Clean Up Your Community! signs. They threw out the old wood desks and replaced them with big, round white tables. The windows are big, the
rooms bright and sunny. There are Smart Boards in all the classrooms. The cafeteria serves organic food. You look at the kids in the halls, chattering away, and you can’t believe this was ever a place with nuns, crosses, and black robes, where everyone was obsessed with sinning and death and God’s ultimate judgment.

Outside the entrance, there’s a plaza encircled by plants and shrubs. Right now, it’s packed with kids. As I walk through the crowd and into school on this first day of my junior year, I wonder, Is Chloe already inside? Are her friends with her? Are they waiting for me?

Get ready for hell
.

I only have to survive for half a day, I tell myself as we wade into the crowded lobby. The first day of school starts at eight-thirty and ends at twelve. You have to be in your homeroom by nine. The Welcome Back to School assembly for juniors starts at ten. Then you register for classes, and you’re done. Nearly everything that happens today takes place in a crowd. Chloe is not in my homeroom; neither are her friends. So the only times I will be truly vulnerable are bathroom breaks. Hopefully, I can make it to lunchtime without taking one.

As Ella and I head up the stairs to the juniors’ lockers, Ella mutters, “I know what everyone’s going to think: She spent two months at a fat camp, and she’s still a blimp?”

“Stop,” I tell her. “You look great.”

But it’s true. Most of us have known one another since diapers, so the first day of school provides the only real surprises. As I hug people hello, compliment new clothes or summer tans, tease,
and ask questions, I register changes. Huh, Karen got the long-discussed nose job. Oh, David Fink got his braces off, confidence has soared. Leslie Davis looks fantastic. Jason Arnstein looks more depressed than ever. He really needs a new shrink.

And I know they’re looking at me and wondering if what they heard about me over the summer is true. I can feel the questions swirling like spirits. So I just keep the focus on whoever I’m talking to: “God, love the hair.” “Where’d you go in August?” “The summer reading was insane!” I don’t give anyone room to ask questions—especially about Oliver. With Chloe on the rampage, the worst thing I could do is talk about him. It would sound like bragging or whining or some hellacious combination of both. What happens in summer stays in summer.

But as I’m trying to figure out my locker combination, Nina Watts catches me off guard, saying, “Yo, heard someone had a hot summer.”

I glance up at her, wondering what she’s heard. Her face shows intense interest but no clues. I shrug casually. “Really kinda lukewarm.”

“No deets?” She puts out her lower lip.

“No fun ones. Sorry.”

She walks away disappointed. I wonder if it might have been a good idea to give her just a few deets. Then I could have asked her some questions. Like, What are people saying about me? Think I’m a total slut?

And—pathetically—Does everyone still like me?

It seems like they do. Later, Xander Bartlett waggles his eyebrows and asks, “Did you seriously flash a bunch of cars on the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge?” I give him an “And you missed it” smile.

A few minutes after, Malaya Chen squeals, “Oh, my God, I heard you proposed to an NYU guy at Ping Pong Rocks.” I joke, “Rumors, rumors—and he was Columbia.”

So far, everyone is … friendly. No one has said, You bitch, you tried to steal Chloe’s boyfriend.

Of course, I haven’t run into Chloe yet.

Not all the gossip is about me. On my way to homeroom, I hear Tessa Sedgewick say to Becca Lewes, “God, did you hear her brother died?” and I know they’re talking about Cassie.

And Becca says, “I saw her in the hallway. No big tears. She’s totally bizarro.”

Maybe it’s my stress about my sitch, but this really pisses me off. I want to say, “Yeah, how
should
you act when your little brother dies?” I’ve never gotten why we double Xs are so bitchy about each other. It’s like, We’re half the population, people. Chill.

In homeroom, I get some sideways looks and
whisper-whisper
s from certain people. Whatever, I think. At least no one’s mentioned Oliver. As long as that stays quiet, Chloe won’t feel humiliated. Then maybe she’ll let it go.

My homeroom teacher is Mr. Emmersdorf. He teaches French, and he’s kind of lingo-Asperger’s in that things that take place in English don’t really register. As he drones on about the key events of September, Wallace Laird leans over to me and whispers, “Brave female.”

I give him a puzzled look. Generally, I’m a proud member of the Chicken Poop Club.

Wallace peers at me over his glasses. “Messing with Chloe Nachmias? Crazy brave. You bring your brass knuckles to school?”

I pat my bag like, Yep, got ’em right here. But my stomach starts
churning. If Wallace is talking about me and Oliver, then everyone is. If Wallace expects Chloe to kick my ass, that improves the chances of Chloe kicking my ass by about one hundred percent. Considering the chances were fairly high before, this is not good.

People do not cross Chloe. The girl just holds on to anger. Like, we all get pissed and say “God, I hate that person,” or “I’m totally done with so-and-so.” And maybe “You bitch” behind their back, but nothing more. Chloe takes hate to a whole other level. Chloe’s very popular; when she’s not on the warpath, she can be a funny, cool person. She’s a school star. Even if you don’t like her, you secretly hope that one day she’ll like you.

But I notice her two best friends, Isabelle and Zeena, are total doormats who go along with whatever she says. That’s because the reasons Chloe decides to hate people can be … mysterious, let’s say that.

For example. Chloe used to be best friends with Hannah Nigh. They did student council; one of them came up with the idea to have a fund-raising dance for … sorry, some country that had a big earthquake, I don’t remember which one. And Chloe said it was her idea and Hannah said it was hers, and the knives came
out
. For a while, it was total war between them. Then Hannah got over it. Chloe didn’t.

If Hannah came into a room, Chloe would immediately leave or move to the farthest point from her. She never said her name again, always referred to her as the Bitch Who Shall Not Be Named. If Hannah was invited to something, you could not invite Chloe, unless you wanted things thrown. A year later, Chloe still gets all angry cat and hisses, “Well, you know what she did to me,” whenever Hannah’s name comes up.

This isn’t the first time Chloe’s decided she hates my guts. In eighth grade, we did a history project together. Since my dad’s a history professor and I sometimes “help” him with research, Chloe figured we’d ace it. I’m just not an ace-it kind of person. And frankly, she was so intense about it, she wigged me out. So I put it off and ended up doing my half at the last minute.

We got a B. Chloe never spoke to me after that. She’d walk by me in this sniffy, offended way like, You know what you did, and I was like, Uh, no, I don’t, actually.

So this is the girl I’ve pissed off. Did I mention I’m not terribly bright sometimes?

“Bon!”
announces Mr. Emmersdorf.
“Venez, s’il vous plaît, à la réunion.”
Mr. Emmersdorf, I want to say, I am barely passing Spanish. Do not throw French at me as well.

Not today.

Just before I enter the stairwell to head to the gym, I realize that there is no way I will make it through an hour of school spirit if I don’t take a serious piss. The girls’ bathroom is right nearby. I’m not going in alone. I see Abby Cronin go in. For a moment, I hesitate. Abby is best buds with Dahlia Carraway, whose ex, Dylan, hooked up with me after they broke up. Dahlia apparently thought she had dibs on Dylan for the rest of their lives, and she was upset. Whatever.

I’m sure Abby’s not my biggest fan. But she’s not tight with Chloe and her fashionistas—and they can hardly attack me if she’s there. So this is safer than a bathroom where I don’t know who’s inside. I follow her in.

Unlike the rest of the school, the bathrooms are still old-fashioned. The sinks are low, the enamel cracked. The mirrors are
spotted and dull. The stalls are a hideous shade of puke-green. It’s like a portal to the old Catholic school. I feel like I should be wearing a black skirt and white blouse.

At the sinks, I try “Hey, Abby.”

“Hi,” she says—cool, but not actively hostile.

“Good summer?”

She gives a “We’re not really friends so I’m not going to tell you” shrug. I smile back like, Yeah, don’t actually care, it’s called manners.

Then she says, “
You
had a good summer, by all accounts.” “By all accounts”: This is the kind of phrase Abby uses to make you feel she’s wise. You want to say, Actually, Abby, it’s just pretentious as F.

Dabbing on lip gloss, I say, “Erm, lot of ups, lot of downs.”

She turns, suddenly bristling. “Oh, yeah? Which was Oliver?”

Startled by her anger, I stammer, “Um—over?”

“Is it really?” she demands.

“Yes,” I tell her, resisting the urge to say, And this is your business … why?

For a moment, we focus on our reflections. Then Abby mutters, “I mean, I’m sorry, but I just don’t think you realize the pain you cause people.”

I am totally thrown. Abby’s acting like I make a habit of dating taken guys, which I absolutely do not. I try to come up with some nasty, devastating retort, but all I can think of is she thinks I do this on purpose. Like I want to hurt people. She has some mean, evil slut in her mind—and thinks that’s me. And it’s not, it’s so not.…

And that’s really all I want to tell her. But Abby flounces out of the bathroom before I can.

I pat a cold paper towel on my face and try to calm down. I
tell myself that Abby is crazy. Jealous. Thwarted. A total B and a half. If she hates me, so be it. If she thinks whatever about me, it doesn’t mean the rest of the school thinks the same. Her feelings cannot hurt me.

Still, I feel those emotions, red and hateful, like heat on my back, as I hurry toward the stairs.

I make it to the gym just before assembly. I am weak with relief to see Ella, and I fling myself into the seat next to hers. “Hey.” She smiles and rubs my arms.

The auditorium is filling up. Kids wander the aisles, looking for seats. Ella munches the last of her Chips Ahoys and glances around. “You haven’t seen Chloe, have you?”

I shake my head.

“Good. Because I heard—”

She hesitates.

“What?”

But whatever it is Ella heard, I don’t get to hear it, because Mr. Crosbie, the headmaster, taps the microphone; it makes a huge, ugly electronic screech—I would too if Mr. Crosbie touched me—and everyone cracks up. The Welcome Back to School assembly for juniors has begun.

The back-to-school assembly for juniors is essentially, Whatever you do, remember
college
! College, college, college. Oh, and did we mention college? By the way, don’t forget college. One last thing—
College!
I want to scream, College? Let me get through this day, okay?