Season of the Witch (4 page)

When Mr. Crosbie’s done with the Remember to Put Every Fart on Your Resume speech, he says, “I would like us all to rise and join hands, please. We will now recite the school civility pledge.”

Normally, the pledge is major oog as far as I’m concerned. But right now, I’ll take any nudges toward niceness I can get. I take Ella’s hand and offer my other to Bill “Pigman” Pullman on my right. He grins maniacally, like I’ve offered him some other body part to touch. I say, “Drooling’s not pretty, Bill.”

Mr. Crosbie’s voice rings out over the gym, followed by a grimy murmur as we repeat his words. “I pledge to be civil and caring to my fellow students. To create a welcoming environment free of hostility and prejudice.”

I pray that Chloe is listening.

After assembly, we trudge back downstairs to the cafeteria to register for classes. There are a million people on the stairs, and the crowd moves sluggishly. Chloe couldn’t reach me—but I could be crushed to death in a stampede.

The cafeteria isn’t big enough to hold the whole class, so you have to wait on line in the hallway until it’s your turn to go in. It’s only the first day of school, but I swear it smells of old chicken soup. There are no teachers in the outside hallway; they’re all inside registering kids. Every so often, the door opens and Ms. Davenport, the dean, calls out, “Next ten!” But that’s it for supervision.

I keep a close eye on the door, nervous that at any minute Chloe will come out, her two flunkies in tow.

Then Lizbeth Dawson comes up to me and Ella. Lizbeth is the captain of the rugby team. She has a face full of freckles and a wide smile. Lizbeth is real people. Everyone likes her and she likes everybody. I relax, knowing she’s not here to read me the slut act.

She says to Ella, “Did I hear about some sadness in your family?”

Gulping in surprise that someone as popular as Lizbeth would speak to her, Ella says, “Yeah, my little cousin. He died.”

Lizbeth frowns in sympathy. “Can you tell Cass I’m really sorry? And if she wants, call me?”

“Sure,” says Ella. “But you can—”

Lizbeth shakes her head. “I tried. She doesn’t seem to want to talk right now. But I wanted her to hear I care, you know?”

“Sure, yeah,” says Ella nodding. Then when Lizbeth leaves, she mutters, “You’re just getting the Cassie treatment, sorry to say.”

“The Cassie treatment?” I ask.

“Oh—” But before she can explain, Ms. Davenport calls “Next ten!” and it’s our turn. Inside, it’s a total mob scene, people shoving and elbowing to get to the lines for popular classes. Ella says to me, “I don’t see Chloe. Big phew, huh?”

“Chill,” I say, because her nerves are making me nervous. If I’m going to run into Chloe anywhere, it’d be here.

We register for English first. I think, If I can get Ms. Davis’s class on African American literature and avoid Mr. Rhinehart’s class on Elizabethan poetry, the universe is on my side and I will be okay.

“Sorry, sweetie,” says Ms. Padalla when I get to the table. “African American’s all filled up. How about some Spenser?”

Once we’re done with English, Ella goes to sign up for French while I sign up for Spanish and twentieth-century history. While I’m stuck on line, Ella finds me and says, “I have to talk to the administration about my gym exemption.” Ella gets a note from her doctor claiming she has a knee problem and can’t take gym. Every year, the school hassles her about it, which they should because it is kind of crap. Or maybe I’m just jealous my doctor won’t make up a knee problem for me so I can get out of gym too.

Then she asks, “Meet by the lockers after this and go for ice cream?”

“Are you allowed on this crazy diet?”

“First day of school,” she explains patiently.

I say “Sure” and hope she doesn’t hear how scared I am to be on my own.

Once I’ve registered for history, I’m done. Alone, I feel the space around me expand and empty out. I glance around for Nina, Malaya, anybody—but there’s not one person I can attach myself to.

Then I spot Oliver, waiting on line for World Humanity. That’s a special class in … making the world better, I think. You do ecology and economics and general save-humanity stuff. Oliver’s into all that. His dad teaches Chinese and his mom works for the UN. Oliver is super-serious brainy man—whereas I’m a “got no clue, just trying to get through” kind of girl. Over the summer, he told me that the World Humanity class is a good way to get a summer job with Amnesty International. In fact, he has his first interview for the Amnesty gig in a month. He’s horrendously nervous about it.

He really is adorable.

Do not talk to him, I tell myself. Do not. It will be all over school in five seconds and Chloe will have even more reason to hate you.

But if I just walk past him, that’s not talking to him, is it? If he talks to me, that’s his choice, right?

I have to do this smart. Keep my eye focused on something else, as if I haven’t even noticed he’s there.

Toni, hey—

It only happens in my head. I walk near him.…

Walk past him.

He says nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I know he saw me. I can tell by the way he stared straight ahead as I passed.

Crap, Oliver. Seriously?

Behind me, I hear a giggle. The kind of murmur that tells you people are talking about you. Then laughter …

I am not, not, not going to let anyone see me cry.

I race into the nearest bathroom, praying no one is in there. I’m in luck. Most kids are either still registering or they have stronger bladders than I do. I sit in the stall, try not to feel like the saddest, biggest loser on the planet.

I feel so effing stupid. It is a basic rule. Guys who are half of a super couple always, always, go back to their girlfriends. I know this. I should not have expected Oliver to do anything other than what he did.

Although I did expect him to act like a human being.

Whatever. All I can do is move on.

I go to the sink, smack my face with a wet paper towel, and blink a million times. Then I brush my hair as hard as I can. Then I retie my hair bow and go back into the world.

Just in time to see Chloe, Isabelle, and Zeena coming down the hall.

I take a deep breath. Think, So, here we are.

One summer, when I was having trouble with creeps on the street commenting on my anatomy, my mom gave me a piece of advice. “Show no fear,” she said. “Act like they’re not there. Do not let them see that you’re nervous or upset. If you look like a
victim, you have a much greater chance of becoming a victim.” After that, I put on my most badass face when I walked down the street. And it actually worked. The “Oh baby, babys” stopped.

Now I tell myself, Act like they’re not there. Show no fear whatsoever.

Chloe is petite and perfect. She stands around five foot nothing, and every part is ideal, from her toned arms to the legs that look great in short skirts. She never looks an ounce over- or underweight. She wears her dark hair in a French braid most of the time. She always makes me feel clumsy and unwashed. Isabelle is dark with a bony, model body and Zeena is a short, plump blonde who likes to work a rich-girl sneer.

There are two doors in every hallway, one to the west stairway, the other to the east. Chloe and her friends are blocking the east stairway. I give them a quick smile, start heading to the west stairs. But Isabelle and Zeena get there first. Now I’m stuck in the middle of the hall, with the three of them—well, basically surrounding me.

Chloe says sweetly, “Isabelle, remind me, aren’t we supposed to give Toni something?”

“Did it start with an … ‘H’?” Isabelle wonders.

“End with an ‘L’?” adds Zeena.

“
That’s
what we meant to give her,” croons Chloe. “Hell.”

As one, they start walking toward me. I am cornered, trapped between the wall and them. I look to each door, praying someone will bust in and save me. But everyone’s at registration or long gone. I think of Mimi at home on the windowsill. How I surrounded her with friends, put her enemy far away. That was supposed to protect me. So why am I surrounded by enemies?

Chloe stops in front of me. Isabelle steps left, Zeena right. A single word out of my mouth will be the signal to attack. I feel their eyes, their excitement. Chloe’s hate.

They close in on me.

They start to whisper, one after the other. Chloe, then Zeena, then Isabelle. “
Everyone knows. Everyone knows. Everyone knows.”
Their voices blend, grow louder as they speak as one.

“
Everyone knows. Everyone knows. Everyone knows.”

I draw in a ragged gulp of air and break through. Without looking back, I walk quickly toward the nearest exit. Pretend I don’t hear Chloe say in that creepy singsong voice, “Don’t go. We have so much more to give you.…”

They didn’t hurt me, I think as I pound up the stairs. I was never actually in danger. They just wanted me to feel like I was.

Maybe that’ll be it, I tell myself. Maybe they just wanted to scare me a little and they’ll be satisfied with that. I mean, really. What else are they going to do?

The school has pretty much emptied out. Ella and I are supposed to meet by our lockers. All I have to do is make it up to the fourth floor. But when I get to the doorway, I hear the rattle of a locker and freeze. They followed me, Chloe and her poseur posse. They’re waiting just beyond this door in that empty hallway. Because now everyone’s gone home and they can do whatever they want.…

Cautiously, I look through the wire grill window in the door.

And see Cassie.

No, Cassandra now.

I should just leave her alone. If this day has been weird for me, I can only imagine what it’s been like for her.

Even before now, Cassandra’s always kept her distance from most kids at school. Her dad is a poet, her mom is a philosophy professor. Cassandra is smart—and she comes off as a little … pure, somehow. I always imagine she goes somewhere after school and talks about Kierkegaard or something. She’s also quite tall. As the Sephora guy might say, the good Lord didn’t do too bad by her. She’s got wide shoulders and big, springy brown hair she wears short around her face. She has a long, strong jawline, a full mouth, and huge, catlike eyes. My dad’s specialty is FDR, and Cassandra looks like Eleanor Roosevelt’s pretty cousin, if you can imagine that.

I peek through the window again. I wonder if anyone was nice to her today.

Someone really should be nice to her.

Carefully, I step through the door.

Immediately, Cassandra turns. Those amazing green-gray eyes. They hit me like a spotlight. I feel caught, immediately guilty. I fight the urge to squint. Or even run.

Which may be why I stammer. “I-I’m sorry.”

She’s still staring at me. Waiting.

“I heard about what happened,” I say.

She frowns slightly, shakes her head.

I swing my book bag uselessly. “Ella told me about your brother.”

This was probably a mistake, mentioning Ella. Getting more uncomfortable by the second, I add, “Anyway, I’m really sorry.”

Cassie/Cassandra doesn’t say anything.

“So, ciao,” I say, and start walking back to the stairwell. I can wait for Ella outside.

But as I do, I sense Cassandra behind me, sense her watching. Her gaze is hot, prickly between my shoulders. I fight the urge to scratch.

Stop, I think. Chill out.

But I can’t. The spot between my shoulders is burning now; the laser’s cut through the cloth, is searing my skin. Panicky, I reach back.

Feel nothing. Soft, dull cotton.

I hear Cassandra laugh, high and joyful—Made you look!—and spin around.

Screw you! I scream in my head. I was trying to be nice.

But she’s not there. The hallway’s empty.

The chick is weird, I tell myself as I wait on the street for Ella. Everyone’s always said that about Cassandra. Even when she did the same things everyone else did, liked the same stuff, you always felt she was faking it a little.

I guess she’s stopped faking.

And frankly, screw her for making me feel this stupid.

I look at the time. And screw Ella for being late. Again.

And Oliver.

Oh, and obviously Chloe.

And Isabelle. And Zeena.

And Abby.

And Nina and Wallace and everyone who’s obsessed with my supposed slutdom.

In fact, let’s just say screw everybody.

Screw. Them. All.

“WHAT’D YOU DO IN SCHOOL today?”

If you ever hang out at my house for a while, you will hear this question. A lot. It is a very important question to my parents. And please note: It is not How was school today? which is what most parents ask. Or even What happened in school today? It’s What did
you
—Antonia Thurman—do in school today? What smart thing did you say? What good deed did you perform? What friend did you make? What teacher did you impress?

Which may be why I usually say, Nothing.

We are eating dinner. We don’t really have a dining room, just what my mom calls an “eating nook,” a round white table with four chairs just off the kitchen. Over our heads is a large orange glass lamp that shines only on the table. We haven’t turned on the living room lights; most of the house is dark. So it feels like we’re castaways, huddled around the fire on a desert island.

My mom says, “Must have been nice to see your friends.”

I nod, thinking, Um, yes, except that they’ve decided I’m a man-stealing whore.

Then my dad asks my mom, “How’d that billing thing with your patient go?”

My mom waves her hand. “Problem solved. Everything’s fine.”

Everything’s fine. That’s another thing you hear around my house a lot. My mom says it on the phone when she’s talking to friends. My dad says it to his brother when he’s asked how it’s going. They both say it to me. Not the actual words, so much. But in their frozen smiles, the happy talk at the dinner table, the way my dad sits hunched and quiet while my mom chatters on—it’s all
Everything’s fine!

I look at the fourth chair. I don’t know why we have four, when there are only three of us. For guests, I guess. Except we haven’t had anyone over lately.