Witch Test, page 2
On the day we started the play, we spent almost the whole class on the word “crucible,” learning its definitions and origins and discussing why Arthur Miller chose it for the title.
Mr. Juno is in full lecture mode now. “Oftentimes, accusations of witchcraft extended to spouses or children. Being formally cleared of charges, even posthumously, could help clear their family members.”
“It’s so not cool that they drowned innocent people to prove they weren’t witches,” says Abby, and it’s the first time I’ve agreed with her in a long time. “What about due process and being judged by a jury of your peers?”
“Good question.” Mr. Juno never reprimands students for talking in class if he thinks it adds to the conversation. “The Salem witch trials happened more than three hundred years ago, before there was a Constitution, before there was even the United States. The Puritans determined the laws, and many of them were unfair or came from a place of fear.”
“That sucks,” says Anthony.
“Better language, Anthony,” Mr. Juno says. “But, yes, it was bad for many people. The Puritans led hard lives, no modern medicine, harsh winters, and food shortages. It was easy to blame anyone that was different for the hardships.” He checks the clock, and thankfully it’s only a couple of minutes before school ends. “Good discussion today. Tonight your homework is to review what we went through today and answer the questions in your virtual classroom. I have a surprise for you next week.”
That gets a cheer from everyone except for me because I don’t need any surprises in my life right now.
On my way to my locker, I pass by Abby and Mia, who are whispering with their heads close together. I think I’ve avoided their notice, until Abby shouts in a friendly voice, “Hey, Liza!”
I’m so caught off guard that I turn around. “What?”
“You should come over this weekend and go swimming.”
This summer it would have been a perfectly normal request, but it’s October…and, well, we’re not friends anymore. My forehead pinches together in confusion. Unfortunately, our exchange has earned the attention of everyone in the hallway and they’re all staring at us.
“But she might drown,” Mia says loudly, playing it up for the crowd. Now I see where this is going, but there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Abby shoots a pointed look at the faces watching us. “Witches can’t drown. Can they, Liza?”
Abby may have preached about due process in the classroom, but she’s been acting as judge and jury since her party. And she’s sentenced me to middle school misery.
Chapter 4
Mother Goose Apothecary
I run out of the school all the way downtown. The tears hold off until I’m in front of my aunt’s shop across the street from the town green.
I wipe my face and try to fan the puffiness from my eyes. If my aunt finds out I’ve been crying, she’ll have a million questions, and I can’t deal with that right now. It’s strange enough that I’m showing up on a Thursday.
I skip the front entrance where the door is decorated with a mosaic of blue and white sea glass, above it a green sign with Mother Goose Apothecary written in scrawling gold lettering. Instead I walk down the driveway that leads to the back where there are a few parking spaces for customers. A gate takes me into the garden behind the shop, and it’s like opening a door to another world.
It’s small, but Aunt Candy makes use of every inch of space. A big butterfly bush, still in bloom, sits in one corner. Droopy sunflowers that no longer have their petals slouch in a line along the side fence. A patch of bright yellow goldenrod borders one side of the waterfall—yes, my aunt’s garden has its own waterfall.
Then there are the herbs, all different kinds popping up throughout the garden. And that’s only the plants I can identify.
A patchwork of slate stones littered with goose poop make a walkway to the door where Randi stands guard. She opens her mouth and honks. I honk back and shoo her out of the way.
Randi is a Canada goose and the source of all the poop. She’s also grouchy and a pain in the butt. She’s been a regular in my aunt’s garden for as long as I can remember, and I think the shop is named in her honor.
Candy is impossible when it comes to that goose and spoils her like she’s an actual pet. I don’t know why Randi can’t go hang out with all the geese in the pond over by City Hall. As if reading my thoughts, the goose nips at my heels as I slip through the back door. I slam it shut before she can sneak in.
An assortment of scents hits me immediately. It never smells exactly the same way when I step into the shop. There’s always a hint of sage. Today my nose picks up mint and something flowery, maybe lavender. All along the back are antique cupboards with small compartments where bundles of herbs are kept. To the right is an aisle devoted to candles of all scents and colors. Tapers, tea candles, big ones in jars—my aunt sells them all.
I walk by cases full of items that Candy calls treasure, but some people might call trash, like the snow globe with red “snow” that falls around a bloodshot glass eyeball and the pewter hand holding a large rat, which I hope is fake but is so real-looking it’s probably one of those gross taxidermy ones. I try not to look directly at it as I pass by.
My favorite things are the tiny fairy figurines that are hidden all over the store. They are constantly moved around, and it’s easy to imagine they’re alive. I love coming across one I’ve never seen before or finding an old favorite in a new spot. There are almost always a few hidden in the plants.
And there are many plants. They hang from the ceiling, sit in large pots in corners, and some even find their way inside the display cases. I swear when any surface opens up, my aunt covers it with a plant in five seconds flat.
I drop my bag behind the counter that houses an old-fashioned cash register and take a seat on the stool. Behind it is an open doorway marked off by a beaded curtain that leads to a room where regular customers aren’t allowed. I hear a murmur of voices coming from it.
Candy must be doing a tarot reading. The shop may look fantastical with the plants, fairies, and oddities, but that’s the ordinary stuff; the real magic happens behind that curtain. My aunt will be sitting on one side of the table, her client on the other, a beautiful tarot deck in between them.
Since my aunt’s not expecting me today, I take out my homework and wait for her to be done. My concentration is shot and my eyes feel tired, so I mostly stare out the window at the people passing by.
When Candy doesn’t have clients, the private room is where I spend most of my time. In between customers, we drink tea and it often feels like my aunt’s reading me without the help of a tarot deck.
I’ve never had her do a reading for me; she doesn’t read minors. My aunt is happy to illuminate the mysteries of people’s lives as best she can. She says that people don’t always know what to do with that information, and certainly not young people.
She’s prone to saying things like, “Some things are best left unknown.”
I wonder if I had known how things turned out between Abby and me, if I would have done anything differently. There are some things I should have done differently, but I wonder what else might have changed if I had seen what was coming. It’s confusing to think about.
A woman with frizzy hair and thick-framed glasses emerges from behind the curtain. “Liza! You’ve gotten tall.”
It’s the kind of thing grown-ups say when they don’t know you very well. “Hi, Mrs. Greenwood.”
My aunt pokes her head out and a look of concern flickers across her face before it settles into a smile. “Liza, what a nice surprise. I’ll put on some tea.”
A little bell jingles as Mrs. Greenwood opens the front door. “Thanks, Candy. See you next month.”
In the private room, the cards are gone from the table and a set of mismatched teacups and saucers—family heirlooms—are set up. The tea infusers are sitting in the cups, waiting for the hot water to heat up in the electric kettle.
“Sage tea?” The smell is enough to confirm it, even if I didn’t know that Candy always drinks it after a reading. Something about it being cleansing.
“Of course.” She pours the hot water into our cups. “And fresh mint in yours. I brought in some of my herb plants last night with the cold finally here.”
I thought the shop felt extra full of plants today, but honestly, it’s hard to tell. I run my finger along the gold brim of the teacup, the smooth edge soothing.
“You’re quiet today,” my aunt says.
I shrug. If I start talking, she’ll get me going, and I don’t feel like getting into it.
“Hmmm.” She examines me with her eyes. “Your period didn’t come early, did it?”
“Ugh, no.” Despite my pleas for her not to track my cycle, she does anyway. She claims she doesn’t keep a calendar, just that she remembers.
“I won’t force it out of you, but you know I’m always here to talk.”
“I know.” She tells me that just about every week. It’s kind of annoying, but it’s also nice to have the reminder. I don’t always want to talk, but I know I can, which is more than I can say of my dad. He’s not much of a talker.
I blow on the hot tea. The warm, minty smell boosts my mood.
Candy resorts to small talk, which is her way of giving me time. “You helping your dad this weekend?”
“Yup.” I sip my tea, even though it’s too hot and burns my tongue.
“Maybe I’ll send Felicity to get pumpkins for the shop. They’ll look good out front, don’t you think?” Felicity is my aunt’s girlfriend. She’s been around as long as I can remember. I don’t know why they don’t get married, but I guess it’s none of my business.
“I’ll set aside the funky-looking ones.” My aunt likes everything to have character. She gives a home to the things that other people overlook or leave behind.
“Any other plans for the weekend?”
“I’m going to the carnival Saturday night,” I blurt out.
“Ohhh.” She draws out the word. “Who with?”
The way she asks tips me off that she has noticed Abby hasn’t been around. She’s probably been waiting for me to bring it up. If Candy is tiptoeing around the absence of my ex-best friend, then she must realize what a big deal it is.
“Daya, a girl from my lunch table.”
“That should be fun. Call me if you need a ride.”
Daya hadn’t mentioned going together, just meeting there. We didn’t talk about what time to meet either. Now I’m not sure if I should go.
I think my aunt senses my hesitation. “Felicity and I were thinking of going.” It’s a total lie because a carnival is so not their scene. They’re more into craft fairs and farmer’s markets. I can’t imagine either one of them on a ride or eating fried dough. “Why don’t we pick you up at seven and we can all go together? Should we pick up Daya on the way?”
“No.” I add honey to the tea and watch it swirl around and dissolve as I stir. “I’m meeting her there.”
The bell on the shop door jingles. Before my aunt can stand to see who’s there, Felicity’s singsong voice rings through the shop, “Hello, my love!”
Felicity bursts in, a flurry of bangles clanking on her wrists and a scarf flowing out behind her. She never simply enters a room but makes an entrance. At seeing me, the same look of concern my aunt had crosses her face. She bends down to give my aunt a peck on the lips.
“Liza!” She squeezes my shoulder. “How are you, my dear?”
I get up and give her a hug, the scent of her chamomile moisturizer filling me up. Felicity claims copious—her word—amounts of it keeps her skin smooth and shiny. She’s a little older than my aunt and doesn’t have a wrinkle on her face. I recently added moisturizer to my skin routine. Mine doesn’t smell as nice, but I’m embarrassed to ask where she gets hers.
“We’re bringing Liza to the carnival Saturday night,” Candy declares.
Felicity’s face lights up. “What fun! I’ll wear my silver headband. It’ll be extra sparkly under all those lights. What’s your favorite ride, Liza? I won’t do anything spinny, but anything high or fast, I’m game.”
I grin into my teacup. My aunts are the best. I’m almost looking forward to going to the carnival.
Chapter 5
Brand of Faith
My aunts drop me off at my house in time for me to heat up leftover pasta and sauce for dinner. My dad gets in around seven, looking dirty and tired. Like usual, he was up before the sun this morning and left the house before I got up.
“Did you harvest a lot of pumpkins?” I ask.
He grunts as he scrubs his hands in the sink. When he sits at the kitchen table, he reaches across for my hand for us to say grace. We only go to church on Christmas Eve and Easter, but on days we actually eat dinner together, he insists on saying a blessing before the meal.
His hand is cold and rough in my much softer one. His skin is tan from all the hours he spends in the fields and wrinkly like a raisin.
I’ve tried to convince him to use a daily sunscreen. I even gave him a bottle I bought with my own money, which he put in the medicine cabinet in his bathroom. But I’d bet all the money I earn working the pumpkin stand that he hasn’t touched it since. He doesn’t share my worry over skin cancer, but I don’t want to end up an orphan.
He says a short prayer and ends with an “Amen.”
After that it’s quiet except for the scrape of utensils. When I was younger, I used to fill the quiet with chatter about my day, but I have less to talk about with him these days. He would never understand the Abby drama. I’m not sure he’s noticed that she hasn’t been around.
Tonight I feel like trying. “Did Mom like church?”
“Your mother?” he asks slowly, like it’s taking him a moment to remember her. “She wasn’t much the church type.”
“Why not?” I always assumed they went every week, like most of the families in town. I figured my dad stopped going regularly once my mom died, but I guess that wasn’t the case. There’s a lot I don’t know. My dad doesn’t like to talk about her, and I’ve mostly stopped asking.
“She had her own brand of faith.” He stops shoveling food into his mouth and looks thoughtfully out the window. It’s dark and all you can see is the reflection of the light over the table.
I have no idea what he means by that. “Wasn’t she Catholic?”
“She grew up Catholic but moved away from the church in her teens.” He scoops a big bite and shoves it in his mouth.
My parents both grew up here, so they knew each other a long time before getting married. My mom went away to college but came back, and my dad has lived here his whole life. He never went to college, instead opting to work on the farm full-time before eventually taking over for my grandparents. That’s when my grandparents moved out of this house and my mom moved in, and a few years later I was born.
My dad’s parents both died when I was five. I only have a few memories of them, but that’s more than I have of my mom.
“And that was okay with Grandpop and Gram?” I ask of my mom’s parents, who also died when I was little.
“Not really.” He sets his fork on his empty plate. “Your aunt stopped going to church around the same time. Your grandparents and your mom and Candy used to fight about it, arguments loud enough for the neighbors to hear.” He stands and sets his dishes in the sink. “Thank you for making dinner, Liza. I’m going to shower and do some work before bed. Make sure to do your homework.”
“Okay, Dad.” He’s out of the kitchen before the words are out. It’s always like that with him. Sometimes I wish I didn’t have to go fishing for information; I just want to know who my mom was. Maybe I’ll ask Aunt Candy about the whole church thing. She’s more willing to talk about my mom.
I’m not sure why I bothered asking my dad. Maybe it’s because I haven’t been as busy lately; it gives me more time to wonder about her. Like how my life might be if she were still here. Or what she would have thought about the Abby situation.
I clean up the dishes and head to my room. In the upstairs hallway, I stop at the self-portrait my mom painted the year she died. I usually pass by it without a second glance, but for some reason, I stop to look. My favorite photo of her that I keep in my room is black and white, so I’ve never noticed how her hair is the exact same light brown as mine.
She must not have dyed it. Candy’s always dying her hair different colors, and Abby’s mom definitely isn’t a natural blonde. I never thought about how sad it is to die before you have to worry about gray hair.
In my room, I finish my homework quickly and then get ready for bed. I’m not tired, but I don’t have anything to do. I turn on my phone, but there’s nothing to see. Before I deleted my accounts, all the posts were my ex-friends hanging out without me or them spreading rumors about me. I’m not sure which was worse, feeling ignored or having them be mean.
I leave my window open a crack and tuck myself up in my warm quilt. I try to remember my mom—like really stretch my memories for what her face was like and not just how she looked in the self-portrait or pictures. I can’t get a good image.
A sense of her smile is there, but that’s probably from the pictures, not a real memory. I imagine being snuggled up in her lap and running my fingers through her hair. Right before I fall asleep, I think I get a whiff of what she might have smelled like. It must be the lavender mist I sprayed on my pillow that Candy says helps with sleep, and not a long-lost memory of my mother. I don’t have any of those.
Chapter 6
Carnival
Saturday is warm, the pumpkins baking under the sun as people from all over town and beyond come to find the perfect one for their front yards and porches. It’s busy, but it’s mostly families with young kids, so I don’t see anyone from class.
