Wart (13 page)

"I'm afraid it's too early," Dad said. "The tree would dry out."

"Oh no," said Ms. Gibbs. "I don't mean a real tree. We'll get a lovely artificial one."

"You mean for your house?" asked Dad.

"I don't think we need two trees, do you? We'll get a tree for your house."

Stewart leaned forward in the seat. "We always get a real tree, right, Dad? We don't like fake trees."

"That's right," said Dad. "It's sort of a family tradition."

"Well," said Wanda, "if we're seriously thinking of becoming a new family, we need new traditions."

"We don't like fake trees," Georgia repeated. "That's because our mommy would never have one. She wouldn't, would she, Daddy?"

The car seemed full of quiet. Wanda had her head turned toward Dad, and Stewart could see that her eyebrows were raised in a questioning expression. Finally, she spoke. "So there can be no artificial tree?"

Stewart couldn't see his father move, but he knew Dad was squirming inside. "Well, kids," he said, "we might rethink this tree thing. They have really improved the artificial ones lately."

"No." Georgia folded her arms across her chest.

Ms. Gibbs turned to look at her. "Georgia, darling,"she said, "real trees are so messy, and besides I'd like to decorate one tonight. Wouldn't you?"

"I like real trees," said Georgia.

Stewart did not say a word. Instead he sat, almost unable to breathe. This was, he decided, the final test. He needed one more piece of proof. The outcome of this conversation could make a big difference in his future.

"Do you really like real trees?" asked Wanda. "I've always hated the way they lose their needles, and then the needles get in the rug and stick in your bare feet on Christmas morning."

"I like the same kind of trees you do," said Georgia, and she smiled. Ms. Gibbs reached back to pat her cheek.

"Good," said Ms. Gibbs. "Let's go pick out our tree."

Stewart glanced at Ozgood who had taken the earphones out. The little boy turned his head toward Stewart. "Mother is always victorious," he whispered.

A great rage rose up in Stewart. The woman in the front seat was controlling the mind of his little sister. His father, too, was under a spell. There was no one to stop her, no one except him. He would fight! Stewart squared his shoulders. He was a warrior who could see the enemy about to burn his home with his family inside, but he had to stay calm, had to fight wisely. "Take me by the house first, please," he said, and he thought his voice sounded normal.

"Don't you want to be in on picking out the tree?" Dad asked.

"No," said Stewart, "you guys go ahead. I promised Ham he could come over to watch a movie with me."

"Well, then," said Ms. Gibbs, "let's swing by my place and pick up that apple pie we didn't even cut and some of the leftover turkey. Growing boys need snacks to go with their movies."

While Ms. Gibbs ran inside for the food, Stewart sat numbly in the backseat, grateful for Georgia's chatter about trees, Christmas, and Santa Claus. "Have fun picking out a tree," he said, when the car pulled into his own driveway.

He walked slowly toward the front door, but when the car was out of sight, he changed directions, heading to Rachel's house. He rang the bell, and Rachel came to the door. "I'm ready to fight her," he said.

• ELEVEN
•

W
hat?" said Rachel. The anger in her eyes made Stewart look down at the porch.

"Okay, Rach," he said, "you're right. You've been right all along, and I've been really dumb. I'm sorry." He had the nerve then to look up. "I want to fight. I
have
to fight." He held out both hands, wide from his body with palms up and open. "The thing is, I need help. I need you and Ham."

She folded her arms across her chest and studied him. Neither of them said anything. Stewart wanted to look away, but he didn't. "So, you've come to your senses?" she said finally, and he nodded. Rachel rested her back against the doorframe. "What about Taylor and basketball? If you fight Ms. Gibbs, she might undo her spell."

He shrugged. "If it is a spell, and I'm afraid it is . . . " He tried to smile. "Well, if my success in basketball isn't real, I guess I don't want it."

Rachel leaned her head to one side and raised an eyebrow. "You guess?"

"I know," he said.

"And Taylor?"

"That's an easy one," he said. "I've eaten with the presidents enough." He grinned, and she grinned back. He had known she wouldn't ask, "Presidents of what?"

They went to Stewart's house, where they called Ham, who wasn't very friendly at first or at all interested in coming over. "I'm sorry I've been such a jerk," said Stewart. "I shouldn't have said that stuff about you being jealous and me being tired of you. You're my best friends, you and Rachel. I'm sorry I've ignored you lately."

"Well," said Ham.

"I've got an entire apple pie over here," said Stewart. "And witch or not, the woman can cook."

"No one can think well on an empty stomach," said Ham minutes later, as he stepped inside the house.

"We can't eat down here." Stewart moved to look out the front window. "They could come back any time. I don't want to look up and see that woman coming toward us."

"Me either, not after what Molly did," said Rachel.

They made turkey sandwiches spread with mayo, collected pickles, chips, and soft drinks to fill two trays. Rachel carried paper cups, plates, and napkins and eating utensils. "I'll come back for the pie," said Ham, and he did as soon as his tray was unloaded on Stewart's desk.

Rachel sat at the desk, Ham on the bed, and Stewart chose the floor, with his back against the door. "This way there won't be any surprises," he said.

"Not unless she can kind of, you know, materialize through things," said Rachel.

"I think that may be what she did at Pet Place," said Stewart, and he shuddered. "I really do. I think she just sort of floated through the door to get away from Molly."

"You guys," said Ham, reaching for a sandwich, "this fight isn't going to be a piece of cake." They looked at each other, and Stewart could feel his friends' resolve, matching his.

Between the sandwiches and the pie, they started a list. "Just say an idea that comes into your mind, anything at all that we might try," said Rachel. She took a piece of paper from a stack on Stewart's desk. "I'll write them down, and we'll go back over them. Even a bad idea might lead to another thought, something we can use."

After an hour, they had eaten most of the pie, but the list was not long. "Read it, Rach," said Stewart. "Like you said, maybe something will click."

Rachel stood. "We have, number one, go to the police." She paused and looked at each boy.

"Nothing," said Ham. "Go on."

"Number two, search the Internet for some sort of witch-busting outfit." Again she waited. "Number three, ask a priest for advice." No one said anything. "Number four, Stewart could talk to his aunt Susan." She shook her head. "Last, go to the child protective services. It's all we have, guys. Now what?"

"You know what's wrong with that list?" Stewart pushed himself up from the floor and began to pace between the bed and the desk. "Don't you see?" He waved his hands in a gesture of dismissal. "Never mind, I'll tell you. Everything on that list depends on someone else, some outsider who we'd have to convince and then count on for help."

"Not going to happen," said Rachel.

"We are all we've got," said Ham.

Just then Stewart moved toward the window. "I think I hear a car," he said. He lifted the curtain. "They're back. Hurry, Rachel, get down the stairs and out the back door. I don't want her to see you now because of Molly."

Ham jumped off the bed. "I'll go with you," he said, and he grabbed a paper plate with the last piece of pie on it.

Stewart ushered them down the stairs and into the kitchen. He opened the back door, but just before they went out Ham put out his hand, took Stewart's, and put it on top of his own. Rachel joined them in the hand stack. "Go, team!" said Stewart.

"We're all we've got," said Ham, and he ran with Rachel out the back door. Stewart watched, just able to see well enough to know that they both went through the gate that had always connected his yard to Rachel's.

"We'll keep thinking," he heard Rachel shout, and then the front door was opening.

"Stew, come see our new tree," Georgia yelled from the living room. It wasn't, he could see, so much a tree as it was a box, a big box his father and Ms. Gibbs were struggling with on the porch.

"How'd you get this thing in the van?" Stewart asked, and he went to grab one end of the box.

"Had to tie it on." His father was sweating.

"Oh, but it will be worth it. Just wait till you see it all decorated." Wanda held the door while Stew and his father dragged in the box. It took hours to put the tree together, dozens of flat fake branches had to be fluffed out and slipped into color-coded slots.

While Stewart, Dad, Ozgood, and even Georgia worked, Wanda Gibbs flitted about making encouraging comments and calling everyone sweet names. Stewart began to think of excuses to get away. He wanted desperately to go upstairs and be alone. Finally, she said, "Goodness, Jimmy darling, you must be starved. I'll go make sandwiches." No one ever called his father Jimmy. Stewart even remembered having heard his father say he could not tolerate it, even as a boy.

But all he said was. "You've read my mind again, Wanda." Stewart felt sick to his stomach.

"I think I'm about to vomit," Stewart said.

He didn't vomit. In his room he gathered up the trash and leftover food, stuffed it all in a pillowcase, and shoved it in the closet. His dad would be coming up to check on him, and he didn't want to talk about why they had eaten upstairs when he and Ham were supposedly going to be watching a movie downstairs.

He turned off the light and threw himself on his bed. Sure enough, in seconds, Dad knocked and opened the door. "You okay, Son?"

"Just a little queasy." He did not turn toward the door. "I'll be all right."

"Wanda wants to come up. Seems she knows some kind of trick about rubbing your hand to make nausea go away."

Stewart wanted to scream. He'd seen all of the tricks from Wanda Gibbs he could bear to see. "That's nice of her dad, but I just want to sleep."

"Well," said his father, "I'll leave the door open. Just give us a shout if you need something."

Stewart grunted. When his father was gone, he lay in the dark listening. Downstairs they were playing Christmas music and decorating the fake tree. He closed his eyes, and then he sat up straight. Suddenly he knew what he had to do. He slid off his bed, got the phone, and dialed Rachel's number. With his foot he reached out to push the door closed, but still he kept his voice down. "Hi," he said. "I have an idea. I've got—"

"To run away," she said.

He pulled in his breath in surprise. "How'd you know what I was going to say?"

"The same idea came to me. I was just going to call you. It's absolutely the only thing you can do."

"Wow," he said, "the same idea came to us both. Maybe we've got some magic on our side too. Call Ham. We'll plan tomorrow."

The next day, the Saturday after Thanksgiving, was beautiful. They met at the park, not far from their houses. Because it was early, no little kids were there yet, and they pretty much had the place to themselves. No one said, "Let's play first." It just started with Stewart going down the slide.

Rachel was first to run to the monkey bars. "Watch me skin a cat," she yelled like she had when they were eight years old.

They played on the swings too, seeing who could go the highest. Rachel won, but Stewart felt so good, flying high in the sky with his friends. For a few minutes they let themselves soar. Then Stewart began to slow himself down. It was time to plan. They stayed in the swings, barely moving and dragging their feet in the sand.

Finally, the run-away plan was complete. Stewart would shake up his father by disappearing, leaving a note explaining that he could not, after all, accept Wanda Gibbs. Dad would question Rachel and Ham, who would admit they knew where Stewart was, but would refuse to tell until he promised to end things with Ms. Gibbs.

"Your parents are going to insist you tell," said Stewart.

Rachel laughed. "Mine might not. My mother doesn't want your father to marry Wanda Gibbs. She doesn't like seeing the woman come to your house, says she can tell by looking that your mother would hate having her around you and Georgia, and since the episode with Molly, she's even more certain."

"Besides," said Ham. "What can our parents do to us to make us tell? They can have us arrested and put in ju-vie hall if they want to. We aren't snitching." He and Rachel did a high five.

"Thanks, guys," said Stewart, "Thanks for everything." His voice shook a little, choked up with tears. He looked down at the sand and changed the subject. "I've got to find out when buses go to Tulsa. I hope I can get one and get there before Dad finds out I'm gone."

"You've got two days to get ready," Ham said. "Do you think Ms. Gibbs will know somehow when she sees you?"

"Wow." Stewart got up from his swing. "I hope not. I won't let myself think about it when she's around."

The next day, Sunday, was easy. Claiming his stomach wasn't completely right yet, he stayed in his room most of the day. In the afternoon his father and Georgia went over to the Gibbses', but no one pressed Stewart to go.

"Tell Ozgood hello for me," Stewart called from the top of the stairs just before they went out. "Or Froggy, whichever he happens to be," he added when the door was closed.

He hadn't wanted to check on bus schedules with his father in the house. There was always the danger that he would pick up one of the other phones and accidentally overhear something. Now he looked up the number and with a shaking hand, he dialed. An elderly sounding woman answered. She answered his question with, "Bus travel isn't so popular nowadays. There's only one bus to Tulsa, kiddo. Leaves here every day at five thirty sharp. You planning a trip to Tulsa, are you?"

"Maybe, thank you." He hung up the phone and groaned. The woman sounded nosy. She'd want to know why he was going, and she would be sure to remember him if anyone came in to ask. The bus would leave right around the middle of the basketball game. Dad would be at the game. He always sat on the home side of the gym. Because of the way the bleachers are built up, he couldn't have a good view of the bench on our side. Stewart would play badly and be put on the bench. He could leave, and Dad wouldn't know he was gone until the game was over. By that time the bus would have arrived in Tulsa, and he would just have to disappear. But where would he go? And what about the bus station woman? He would have to have a disguise. He called Rachel.

The next day at school there was no hope for getting his mind on anything except the plan, and he was pretty sure Rachel and Ham had the same problem. They talked before school, between classes, and at lunch. Rachel and Ham were already at the table when he got through the line. Heading toward them and dropping his tray there, he could feel Taylor's eyes on him. He did not look up at her, but he had hardly started on his spaghetti when he heard her voice. "What's the deal, Stewart?" she asked. "I mean why are you sitting with . . .," she paused for a minute then went on, "these two?"

"They are my friends, Taylor." He didn't want to hurt her feelings. "You're real cool and everything, but Rachel and Ham have been my friends for a long time. This is where I belong."

For just a minute she stared at him, her eyes big with wonder. "You
are
weird. I mean, totally weird. Well, goodbye, Wart." He did not watch her move away, wasn't even tempted to watch her behind in movement.

When game time came, Stewart was ready. He had taken the cologne bottle from his locker and dropped it in the hallway trashcan. Rachel, who had made it to the thrift shop just before closing, had supplied him with the disguise he had stored in his gym bag.

"You didn't show me a whole lot in practice today," Coach told Stewart, "but I'm starting you anyway."

He played hard, running and jumping with all the strength he had. Once he intercepted a pass, drove the ball down the court, weaving through his opponents and made the layup. You did that, he told himself, you, not witchcraft. It felt good to hear the crowd cheer, knowing he truly deserved it. The next time he got the ball he fumbled and had it taken away from him. A few minutes later, the boy he was guarding made a shot he should have stopped. He wasn't surprised when a substitute came to slap his hand.

He did not mind sitting on the bench. He was certain his playing truly had improved since the beginning of the season. He'd continue to practice hard and be even better by next year.

By the beginning of the second quarter, he was ready to make his move. He'd rely on his old standby. "My stomach feels funny," he told the coach. "I might throw up." Stewart knew that was a threat that got a kid excused from anything.

"Go to the locker room," the coach said, and he did. When he came out, he looked like a little old lady in a faded long dress and a big hat, pulled down to hide part of his face. Walking all bent over, he was pretty proud of his disguise until he noticed his high tops sticking out beneath the hem of his skirt. Oh, well, it was the best he could do. Besides lots of people wear athletic shoes. Maybe this old lady is a jogger.