Witch Test, page 10
Mia squeals and edges away.
I try to remember back to kindergarten when Abby and I became best friends. Was she mean back then? I don’t think so. I can’t remember exactly when she turned this way. Or if it was so subtle that I didn’t notice until this summer.
I wonder how long I’ve been acting mean. It’s this fact, not Abby trying to sneak a look at my poem, that prickles my cheeks with heat.
I need to have something to hand in to Mr. Juno, so I shake my hair to try and create a blanket of protection between me and my ex-friends.
Before I can get back to work, Mia snatches the paper out of my hands.
I snap my head around and try to grab it back. She pulls it out of reach and hands it over to Abby. It’s as if a witch has put a freezing spell on everything but my eyes, which get wider the more she reads. I can tell when she reaches the end when she quietly gasps. She tries to cover up her shock by narrowing her eyes into a deadly expression.
Abby kneels on her seat and everyone on the bus stares at us. It has never been this quiet—even the roar of the engine sounds muted—as we all wait to hear what Abby is going to say.
“Liza,” she says, “you have really outdone yourself this time.”
I kneel on my seat, my hand in an outstretched position, not that I have any chance of getting my paper back. I should hunker down so no one can see me. It would be better that way, but I can’t. I’m still frozen, under the spell Abby so easily puts on those she wants attention from.
“What’s it say?” Anthony Rodriguez yells from the back.
Abby’s eyes sparkle with evil delight. “It’s a list of names.”
The bus echoes with “ooohs” and murmurs. She fails to mention that the first names on the list are my dad and my aunts.
“Am I on there?” I don’t see who says this as my gaze is locked on Abby, willing her to stop, to remember how we were best friends not that long ago.
She shoots a look at the person who dared to interrupt her performance.
She skips the first three names, the ones that would show I’m not some kind of weirdo who makes lists about my classmates, and gets to the ones in the middle. “Daya Sharma. Nate Houston.”
The name elicits more “oooohs.” My face burns in anticipation of the next thing on my list.
“The crow,” she says with contempt. That brings out a burst of laughter from everyone. “Mr. Juno.” The laughter turns to shocked whispers.
Someone says, “Does she have a crush on a teacher?”
Someone else asks, “Is that a hit list?”
Abby adds in a few names of my former friends and a few boys from our grade, none of whom are actually on the list. Then with more venom in her voice than I’ve ever heard—and I’ve heard her be really nasty before—she says her own name.
She is on the list, but she failed to read it with the proper question mark at the end. At one time I would have missed Abby—the old version—but in no world, dead or alive, would I miss this awful version.
“The witch wants to curse us all!” Abby shouts, waving the paper around, a flag of my guilt.
Mia shrieks and puts her hand over her mouth in shock. Then a dreadful silence falls over the bus.
I finally lower my hand. Abby and I are locked in a death stare, but the feelings of murder are only on her end. I want to snatch the paper back and tell everyone how most of what Abby said is a lie. I want to explain that it’s just the start of an assignment I should have completed in the privacy of my bedroom.
All I can do is open my mouth uselessly, the retort lost in my throat. Not that it would matter. No one would believe me. My version of events is too boring, while hers is the best gossip since the news of Nate switching schools burned through school.
As the bus pulls into the school driveway and stops, I lurch into Abby. It gives me the chance to catch her by surprise and pull the list from her hands.
The damage is done, though. Shame burns my face as I glare at the bus driver. She often comes to my rescue and stops Abby’s nonsense, but now all she does is clear her throat and point at me and Abby. “You two, stay right there. Everyone else, off the bus!”
Mia’s eyebrows are pinched in concern and she hesitates to leave the seat. Abby makes a shooing motion. “Just go.”
Once everyone has filed off the bus to homeroom, Abby and I follow the bus driver to the main office.
My mind is swirling with thoughts. Not only am I the biggest joke in the eighth grade, but it seems I’m in trouble too, all because of Mr. Juno’s stupid assignment. First it was the witch game and now it’s this.
After reading my mom’s diary entry last night, I thought I might be a witch, but after today’s bus ride, I know that can’t be true. If I were a witch, I’d be hexing an awful lot of people, starting with Mr. Juno and everyone on my bus. Abby would be at the very top of the list with a period, not a question mark.
And she would have already burst into flames.
Chapter 24
Trouble
In the office, the bus driver leans against the counter that separates visitors from the staff desks and offices, leaving the two seats for Abby and me. When we sit, we both lean as far away from each other as the arms of the chairs will allow.
After what feels like forever but is less than ten minutes, the principal comes out of her office and calls for the bus driver.
The bell rings for first period. Through the big glass windows, I watch the hallway fill with students. A few stare back and whisper to each other, but otherwise, everyone goes about their business as usual. It’s just my life that’s falling apart.
With the noise outside the office, Abby takes the opportunity to lean in and threaten me. “I swear, Liza, if I get in trouble for this, no amount of spells will keep you safe.”
“I didn’t do anything,” I point out, though it’s probably only going to make things worse. “You’re the one who stole my homework.”
Abby goes on as if I haven’t said anything, though in a lower tone because the hallways have emptied and the office is quiet again. “Someone has to get control of this Nathan Houston situation, and you’ve only made it worse.”
Aside from the one conversation with Nate at Mother Goose Apothecary, I haven’t spoken to anyone about the party, so I don’t know how I’ve made it worse. Abby’s the one who can’t seem to let it go. She’s the one who sparked the flames of all the rumors in the first place and keeps giving them oxygen to rise ever higher. Not that saying any of that out would make a difference. I let her rattle on with the slew of insults and threats she quietly throws at me.
She ends with “if I see you anywhere outside of school, I will end you.” With a wicked smile, she slashes a finger across her neck like she’s cutting it.
At that moment, the bus driver hurries out of the office and the principal calls in Abby. My insides are twisted up in knots while I wait for my turn. Phones ring and a few students come and go.
When Abby leaves the principal’s office, her face is flushed and agitated. She doesn’t look my way as she flounces into the empty hallway. My stomach flip-flops.
“Elizabeth,” the principal says gently.
I follow her into the office where she gestures for me to sit. The door clicks shut, the quiet sound ominous in my head. Not the type to make trouble in school, as my ex-friends and I were careful to save the worst of our behavior for other times, I’ve never been in here before. The most interaction I’ve had with the principal is at assemblies and the occasional classroom visit.
Her desk is neat with an open laptop off to one side, a few papers in the middle, and a framed photograph. She perches on the edge of it as if this is a casual meeting.
She doesn’t talk right away, only looks at me thoughtfully. “Is everything okay?” she finally asks.
It’s not the question I expected, but it does little to settle me. My leg bounces nervously, and I press down on my knee to keep it from moving too much. Nothing is okay, but talking about any of that with the principal is not an option.
“It’s fine.” I press harder on my knee. “I’m not sure why I’m here.”
“I need to see the list.”
“Why?” I dare to ask.
“I need to see it for myself.” Her voice is quiet but firm as she holds out her hand.
I take it out of the back pocket of my jeans where I stashed it and hand it over. It’s a wrinkled mess now but easy enough to read.
The principal slips a pair of glasses down from her head and reads aloud the title “If I died,” which, of course, Abby left out of her dramatic reading. Her eyes graze me for a second before darting down the page, taking in the actual list of names, not Abby’s made-up one.
“Why did you write this?” Her stare is piercing, like she’s trying to see the answer inside my brain.
“For Mr. Juno’s class.” I push hard enough on my knee that it hurts, a reminder for my mind to stay here in this room and not to disappear into the bubble of numbness threatening to consume me. “It’s not finished yet.”
“There’s more to add?” she asks, not understanding what I mean.
“No.” I stare at the photo of the principal and a boy in a graduation cap and gown, her arm around him as they smile wide. I wonder if she has a spouse who took the photo or if it’s just the two of them, like me and my dad. “I was going to make it into a poem. I’m not much of a poet, but I didn’t want to write it in paragraph form. That felt like it would be too formal for such a personal assignment.”
“What exactly was the assignment?”
I swallow. My mouth is dry, but there’s a pressure behind my eyes that says they might be wet soon. She’s asking so many questions, and I just want to know how much trouble I’m in. “To write what we would miss if we died. This was my start.” Then I sort of mumble, “I told you I’m not a good poet.”
Her lips are pursed in a way that shows she’s not pleased, but her eyes are softer now.
“You’re studying The Crucible in Mr. Juno’s class?” she asks.
“Yes.”
She moves to her seat and taps the screen on her laptop, which is angled so I can’t see it.
“Hmm,” she says quietly. “I see you used to see the school counselor regularly in fourth and fifth grade.”
“Yes.” My throat feels thick, so it comes out like a whisper. “My aunt thought it would be a good idea…that I was old enough to talk to someone about my mom.” I’m guessing she knows my mom is dead.
“Did you find it helpful?” She’s giving me that brain-reading stare again.
“Sometimes.” Sort of. There were moments when it was, but mostly it was awkward. I stuck with it to the end of elementary school because of Candy. It never came up at the start of middle school, so I quietly let it become a thing of the past.
“Do you think it would be helpful now?” Before I can answer, she adds, “It wouldn’t have to be about your mother. You can talk about anything.”
As if I’d spill my guts about Abby, or what happened with Nate, to a school counselor. “No, I’m good.”
She holds up the crumpled paper. “I’m going to hang on to this for now.”
“It’s due today.” I don’t want to risk getting in more trouble, but it’s not fair for the principal to steal my homework.
“I’ll talk to Mr. Juno.” There are those pursed lips again.
I thought maybe once I explained about the list being homework, I wouldn’t be in trouble, but there’s a jumble of worry in my stomach.
Then the principal says, “Have Mrs. Tully write a late pass for your first-period class.”
I jump up out of the chair. “I can go?”
“Yes,” she says distractedly as she stares at the paper. My hand is poised on the door handle when she says, “Elizabeth?”
My heart skips a beat as I turn. “Yes?”
“I notice your mother isn’t on this list.”
“No.” I thought about adding her, but after reading her diary, I’m not sure she would have missed me if I had died in the car accident and she had not. “How can you miss someone you never knew?”
Without waiting for the principal to reply, I escape the office. My heart’s beating hard in my chest while I wait for my late pass. I’m not sure who I’m angrier at right now: Abby or my mom.
Chapter 25
Vintage
The stares continue all morning. Every time I walk into a room, it goes quiet, like they all just stopped talking about me. It’s as bad as the beginning of the school year. Abby, Mia, and Gabrielle have continued to be awful all this time, but everyone else had mostly moved on, only piling on when Abby was being particularly public with her awfulness.
But now with this list, everyone is back at it again. No one seems to know, or care, that I wrote it for a school assignment.
Daya finds me as I miserably follow the crowd at lunch. Hardly anyone has talked to me all day, though there’s been a constant murmur of whispers all around, like a gust of wind blowing at me all morning. She grabs me by the elbow and steers me away from the cafeteria.
I shuffle along next to her as the crowd thins. “Where are we going?”
She gives me a sideways glance as if I’m speaking another language. “The art room. Did you forget? Cameron’s coming today.”
“You still want me to come?” She must know her name was on my list.
We stop in the now empty hallway, and Daya puts her hands on her hips. “Everyone is saying you made a list of people to curse.” I wait for her to accuse me of being a witch. “What’s going on, Liza?”
“I…” I hesitate. I’m tired of explaining myself, I’m tired of everything. But Daya deserves to know the truth, whether she’ll believe it or not. “I was trying to write a poem, for English class…about things we’d miss if we died.” I shrug. “I started with a list and never got any further.”
“Oh,” Daya says. “Was I really on it?”
“Yeah.” I sneak a peek to find she’s smiling.
“Cool.” Her face turns thoughtful as we reach the art room. “And Abby?”
I sigh. “She was on there with a question mark, but she said a bunch of names that weren’t there.”
We set our things down on one of the tables. The art room is bright with a wall of windows overlooking a stretch of lawn at the back of the school. A bunch of old, metal cabinets are lined up along the opposite wall.
“Like the crow?” Daya laughs.
I bite my lip and figure I should keep going with the truth. “No, the crow was really there.”
I consider telling her about how I’ve been seeing it everywhere and the painting and the dreams, but Daya apologizes before I can explain. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to poke fun. And Abby should have never read such a personal thing out loud.”
A sudden rush of gratitude washes over me; this is how a true friend looks out for you. It’s been so long since I’ve had that. My throat is thick with emotion, and I’m glad Daya is distracted with getting her supplies.
I’m setting up a fresh canvas when the door bursts open and Cameron waltzes in. He usually wears bold colors and lots of accessories—he and Felicity would make great shopping pals—and today is no exception. His bright orange shoes match his v-neck cardigan, which is layered over a t-shirt with a graphic design of a can of soup.
I remember the first time I ever saw Cameron, he was wearing yellow-and-blue plaid shorts and a t-shirt with a cartoon teddy bear on it. It was lunch on the first day of sixth grade. I was squished in between Abby and Mia, our table so full that the chairs were right up against each other. Abby gasped, gaining everyone’s attention, and pointed at Cameron.
Mia shrieked, “Oh my god. What is that shirt?”
“Did you raid a baby’s closet?” Gabrielle yelled to Cameron, who was about to sit down at a table near ours. All of our friends laughed.
Cameron remained standing and said in a casual voice, “It’s vintage. Not that you could ever appreciate something that’s so classic.”
His confident response shut us all up. What I remember, though, was the moment before he spoke, the way he winced, just for a second, when Gabrielle hurled her insult.
It’s that image of his face that I can’t get out of my head when he says, “Sorry I’m late. Coach Jackson keeps trying to recruit me for the basketball team. It’s as if she thinks my height can overcome my lack of athletic ability.”
Daya waves at him with one hand and glues a cut-out headline onto her project with the other. Then she slashes red paint over it in a deliberate way. Cameron turns his attention to me.
“The infamous Liza, wicked witch of Hillford Middle School,” he says in the most ridiculous way, so I know he’s not mocking me. Though he has every right to, given the way my ex-friends and I treated him.
He stands next to me with his fist under his chin and stares at my blank canvas. “Stunning! You say so much with the white space. It’s not what’s on the canvas so much as what could be there.”
I can’t help but smile at his impression of an art critic.
From one of the cabinets, he retrieves his project, a papier-mâché blob. “I prefer to express myself on the flesh, but since Mrs. Farmica won’t let me paint my classmates, I have to improvise by making my own faces out of this mess.”
“Cameron is an amazing make-up artist,” Daya says without looking up from her piece.
“I’ll know who to accuse should the cemetery ever be robbed.” I’m surprised at the easy way I make the joke.
Daya and Cameron both laugh. They’re so comfortable to be around, even in the quiet of the art room, each of them absorbed in their work.
I crunch a carrot and stare at the canvas, not sure how to begin. I should have brought my favorite photo of my mom as a reference. It’s black and white, so I’ll have to figure out the coloring, but at least it would give me something to work from. I finish my carrots, squirt out some paint, and make one brush stroke when the bell rings.
