Witch Test, page 3
It’s only a matter of time before Abby and her giant family come by this fall, though all of them probably won’t come together. Her family is uncommonly large. Of her nine siblings, two of them no longer live at home, and her oldest brother has a daughter of his own. She’s three years old and Abby’s youngest sister is only two, so it’s a case of the niece being older than the aunt.
I used to wonder what it was like to have siblings, almost as much as I wondered what it was like to grow up with a mom. Then I became best friends with Abby and got an inside look at what a big family is like. It’s chaotic and loud and fun…sometimes.
Being used to having my own bathroom at my house, it was weird to have to wait in line to use one of the three bathrooms in their house. They never sit down for meals. Instead her mom fills the big dining table with food and everyone grabs a plate and disperses throughout the house.
Abby and I would usually end up eating in the downstairs room of their raised ranch with a couple of her younger brothers. We’d watch TV and sit on the floor. I was never alone at Abby’s house.
The busy pumpkin patch distracts me from how depressing my life has become. And it’s good for my dad and the farm. He doesn’t talk much about money, but a drought this summer meant he had to buy water to keep the crops alive. He’s been working on a more sophisticated water collection system, but that takes time and money as well.
I work one of the registers under the pop-up tent, so that keeps me out of the sun most of the day. I’m comfortable in my leggings and baggy t-shirt. I glance at my phone a couple of times, but it’s quiet. It used to be an hour wouldn’t go by without my phone buzzing with a text or notification, but not anymore.
My dad comes by in the afternoon, his pickup truck full of pumpkins that I help unload. It makes me all hot and sweaty before my shift is over.
“Can I get paid today?” I ask my dad. “I’m going to the carnival tonight with Candy and Felicity.”
He usually pays me every other week, but I want enough to buy food and the bracelet for unlimited rides. He hands me a couple of twenties out of the register and offers me a ride back home. I’m happy to take it because it gives me time to shower before Candy picks me up.
When my aunts arrive in Candy’s cotton-candy pink convertible, the top is down, despite the fact that it’s grown dark and cold. The horn beeps, and I grab my jacket and run out the door. Felicity sits in the passenger seat, and true to her word, is wearing a sparkly silver headband. Long, flowy scarfs are wrapped around their hair. As we lurch down the road, the scarfs blow backward in the wind like flapping banners.
I learned how to drive my dad’s pickup truck last year, so I know how to use a stick shift, though I’m only allowed to tool around the farm once in a while. I think Candy could use a lesson or two about how to shift smoothly as we pull away from a stop sign and the car jerks into a higher gear.
Felicity turns up the music, some kind of dance club song with a steady, pumping beat. I’m starting to rethink my decision to show up at the carnival with them. I’m not a flashy, make-an-entrance type of girl and that’s definitely what we’re doing.
The carnival is set up in a big parking lot outside the grocery store. We pull into the dirt lot next door and find a spot in between a beat-up minivan and a pickup truck with massive tires. The lights of the rides and fairway are almost as bright as daytime. They wash out the stars in the clear autumn sky.
I hop out of the car and Candy wraps her arm around my shoulder. “Where to first? Is your friend here yet?”
I check my phone and there are no messages. “I don’t think so. Want to get food?”
Felicity places the back of her hand on her forehead in a dramatic fashion. “Yes to food. I’m famished.”
We go to a food stall that has all kinds of fried choices. I order French fries and fried dough. My aunt, who is a vegetarian, gets corn on the cob and some kind of fried eggplant thing that looks soggy and sad. Felicity is also a vegetarian. She takes a long time to decide on a vegetable and mushroom shish kebab. They insist on paying, even when I tell them I have plenty of money.
“Nonsense, Liza,” Candy says. “That’s what aunts are for.”
We find a table near the kiddie rides, and it’s almost eight o’clock when we finish eating. I fidget with the bright yellow paper of the carnival bracelet that I bought at the entrance, but I have yet to go on any rides. My aunts haven’t asked me about my friend again, and I’m starting to think that Daya isn’t going to text me. Then my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Are you here? We’re at the Gravitron.
“Is that your friend?” Felicity asks. She and Candy exchange a look, like they hope it’s my friend because they can’t wait to get out of here.
“Yeah.” I stare at the message and wonder who else Daya is with. So far I haven’t seen anyone from school, but I know once I get to the bigger rides, it’ll be full of my classmates. Everyone comes to the carnival on bracelet night. I silently curse myself for breaking my rule of avoiding nocturnal activities.
“You want us to help find her?” Candy asks.
“No.” I force out a smile. “You can go. Thanks for the ride.”
“Anytime, sweetheart.” Candy wraps me in a hug, followed by Felicity, so I’m sandwiched between them.
I slowly head in the direction of the Gravitron, keeping to the edge of the carnival where the shadows are. It’s not long before I spot Daya with her friends Cameron and Sadie.
Cameron was in my art class in fifth grade, the last art class I took before I stopped drawing. He’s the tallest boy in our grade and the only openly gay kid at our school. I don’t know much about Sadie, except that she is one of the shortest girls in eighth grade. On either side of the average-sized Daya, it’s like they’re nesting dolls lined up by size.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans and am about to step out of the shadows when I hear a familiar giggle. Abby, Mia, Gabrielle, and a group of boys are getting off the giant swings, the exit for the ride right next to my patch of darkness. Abby spots me before I can throw on my hoodie. A wicked smile spreads across her face.
“Watch out!” she says loudly, a false note of panic in her voice. “A witch is lurking in the shadows.” Her voice carries over the loud music of the rides, catching the attention of not only Daya and her friends but everyone else in the area.
Daya takes a step toward me, but Sadie holds her back from walking directly into the path of Abby’s wrath. When Daya doesn’t shake off her friend’s arm, a sting of disappointment shoots through me. Daya stood up for me at lunch, but I have no right to expect her to come to my defense this time.
Abby steps right in front of me. I back up into the temporary metal gate that marks off the boundary of the carnival.
“Here for a thrill ride?” she asks with a smirk on her face.
I take a step in a feeble attempt to squeeze past Abby, but she stands firm. My other ex-friends form a half-circle around me. I can’t see Daya anymore, but I’m sure she and her friends are watching.
I let my hair fall across my face in an attempt to hide, but it’s not working. Everyone is staring at me and Abby, waiting for the viper to strike the scared mouse.
“I haven’t seen you outside of school in a long time.” The way she says it is a challenge. “Have you been following me?”
I shake my head, words stuck in my throat.
She takes a step closer. “You don’t belong here.” Her voice is a whisper. Only I can see her face, which turns sad for a moment, not matching her vicious tone. I almost think she misses me, but then she turns, raises her arms, and shouts, “Stay back, witch!” She does the sign of the cross as if warding off evil.
Everyone laughs until Abby shuts them up with a look.
“I should have known you’d take after your witch aunt.” She addresses the growing crowd like she’s onstage and they’re her audience.
Given my aunt’s quirky shop and tarot readings, it’s no surprise that she’d be called a witch from time to time. I expect the nasty whispers from the small-minded people of town, but coming from Abby—who was as welcome in Mother Goose Apothecary as I was—it hurts.
Hot shame stings my face because I don’t say anything to defend my aunt. I simply fall farther into myself, like there’s an invisible bubble around me, muting the world so it’s easier to bear.
“I should have known,” Abby continues, “that the only way you could get a boy to like you was with black magic. You’re the reason Nathan left school. Liza bewitched him with a love potion and now he can’t be around her without going crazy!”
The rumors have been saying as much since the beginning of the school year. It’s one thing to guess what Abby accused me of, and it’s another to have her come out and say it to my face. Especially when Nathan leaving was more Abby’s fault than mine. A small part of my brain yells at me to tell everyone this, to explain what really happened, but most of me just wants to get out of here.
“I don’t want to see your face outside of school again,” Abby threatens. “Got it?”
I push my way past her and the others and run straight out of the carnival grounds. I pump my legs, tears streaming down my face, and race through town, only stopping when I reach the turnoff for my long, winding road. A cramp squeezes my side and tears burn my cold face. I walk the rest of the way home, trying to catch my breath.
My house is dark except for the light on the front porch. The door creaks as I open it, but my dad must already be asleep because he doesn’t come to check on me. I head to my room and lay on my bed fully clothed. A numbness hollows me out and I stare into the darkness for a long time.
Chapter 7
Diary Discovery
The next morning, I wake up long after my dad has headed out for work. He doesn’t make me work on Sundays to make sure I have enough time for homework and hanging out with friends. I finished my homework already and I don’t have any friends, so I have the whole, long day ahead of me.
A restless energy makes my legs ache as I roam around the house listlessly, munching on a piece of toast. I find myself in my mom’s old art studio, the room with the big window overlooking the corn maze. No longer green, the cornstalks shine golden in the late morning sun.
My father and I call it the guest bedroom, though we never have guests. Even when Abby, Mia, and Gabrielle would sleep over, we’d stay in my room and throw sleeping bags on the floor.
I’ve never seen my dad in here. Candy said it once smelled of oil paints and flowers and that she and my mom used to hang out here, drinking tea and laughing. Now it’s as silent as death and as musty as an attic full of old-lady clothes.
I budge open the stubborn window, the paint cracking when it unsticks, to let the crisp breeze freshen it up.
In spring, I imagine my mom decorating the room with lilacs from the big bushes outside. In summer, with those big, bright sunflowers from the field next to the pumpkin patch, the room looking like one of Van Gogh’s famous sunflower paintings. And in winter, with drying herbs, lavender from the patch in the yard and basil, parsley, and dill from the vegetable garden.
I try to imagine her sitting here in the fall on an afternoon like today. The sun is bright and the sky a clear blue, the colors of the trees vibrant and alive, a last punch of color before they die and fall to the ground. A painter’s dream.
I can’t picture her exactly, whether she would have sat by the window for inspiration or whether she preferred the natural light at her back to brighten the canvas. My imagination is limited to the few photographs I have of her and the self-portrait in the hall.
Would she have gathered cornstalks and placed them in a vase in that corner by the bed or by the closet door? Were the walls always this generic off-white so they wouldn’t clash with the colors of her paintings? Or did she prefer a splash of her favorite color? A soft green like buds on a maple tree before the leaves burst through in spring or the pinkish-red of bee balm in full bloom.
A heat behind my eyes warns me the tears could start up at any time. There is so much I don’t know about my mom. She was a painter, but I don’t even know what her favorite color was.
I stare out the window past the corn maze to the dirt road that leads to the woods off in the distance. A crow caws from a high branch on one of the giant, half-dead pines that line the hill behind the house. My dad has mentioned hiring someone to take them down because they’re too big for him and the farmhands to manage themselves, but I hope he doesn’t. There is a strange beauty to them, and their absence would leave a hole in the landscape.
Besides, their sparse branches are the perfect spooky silhouette for the Halloween night corn maze. For us middle schoolers, it’s the biggest event of the season. We all wear costumes and there’s a big bonfire. The little kids come early with their parents, so us older kids get the maze all to ourselves when it’s our turn. That’s when the scares come out, vampires, mummies, and axe murderers stalking through the maze.
I probably won’t bother going this year. It breaks my rule. Last night’s disaster was an embarrassing reminder of why I have the rule in the first place. I won’t risk showing my face in front of Abby again.
A fresh gust blows in through the open window and with a noisy caw, a second crow joins the first. I shiver and rub my arms. When I pull my hands away, I’m suddenly struck with the urge to hold a charcoal pencil. I want to sketch the gnarly shape of the tree against the bright autumn sky, catch the shiny black of the crows in the sun.
I used to draw all the time, enough that I once kept a sketchpad and pencils in my backpack. But I haven’t drawn anything in over two years, not since Abby decided art was for “weirdos and drug addicts.” She said that, even though she knew my mom was an artist. And I stopped drawing.
I got rid of all my art supplies back then, but I wonder if any of my mom’s are still around. I turn a circle in the room and realize how unlived-in it feels with the bland walls and the boring flower pattern on the bedspread. Like an old lady once lived in here but died long ago. I hate it.
A shaft of light from the window slants toward the closet door. I march across the room and throw it open. It’s not like the closet in my bedroom with clothes hanging up and shoes and accessories all over the floor. It’s full of plastic storage bins neatly stacked up almost to the ceiling. The closet is brimming with art supplies, all organized by type as if sitting there waiting for my mom to come use them.
Waiting for me.
I pull open several bins to find partially used tubes of oil paints and paintbrushes, some old and some brand-new. One particularly large tote has unused canvases, and I push away the sadness of wondering what my mother had planned for them. My stomach rumbles as I search every container but fail to find charcoal pencils.
I sit on the threshold between the bedroom and the closet, art supplies littered all around me. The bedroom has turned brighter as the afternoon sun streams in. Something glints in the way back of the closet.
It’s a metal box, covered in dust except for one corner, which must have been where it caught the light. It was easy to overlook in the sea of plastic containers. I reach deep into the corner to retrieve the box. I bring it to the bed and wipe the dust from the metal, sneezing when it puffs up in my face.
It’s an antique jewelry box with curved legs and a raised swirling pattern on the top that reminds me of Van Gogh’s famous brush strokes. Inside there is enough space for a small leather notebook, along with some folded papers underneath.
I carefully crack open the notebook, the leather creaking at the spine. The unlined paper inside is filled with loopy handwriting, a date of October 15 at the top of the first page, no year noted. I flip through to the end of the first entry and it is signed with a scrawling “Elizabeth.” My mother’s diary.
I snap the cover shut and set it aside, feeling like a snoop. A diary is a sacred thing.
With shaking hands, I pick up the papers. I’ve already peeked into the diary, so I figure I might as well look at these too. I open the first one, the pencil worn away along the fold so the drawing is split in half. I trace the lines of pencil, my finger curving around the face drawn there, the chubby cheeks and sparse hair of a baby.
“Oh,” I say aloud, surprised to discover my own face.
A lump forms in my throat as I stare at the image of myself as my mother saw me. It’s a rough, unfinished sketch, but I see the care that went into getting the reflection of light in the eyes just right.
I may not remember my mother, but the love she had for me must have left an impression because right now, ten years after her death, I feel it in this drawing.
I miss her more than I ever have in my whole life. I curl into myself on the bed and hold the sketch up to my face, the paper that my mother once touched up against my nose. Dust from the worn fold tickles my nose and raises tears in my eyes. I hold the paper away and sneeze into my sleeve. Then I lay the paper next to me and stare at it.
My heart squeezes tight in my chest and my breaths come in shallow gasps. The longing for my mother is a physical pain.
I must fall asleep because the next thing I know, the slam of the front door wakes me. The room is dark as I blink and sit up. Dried tears make my face feel tight. I hear the familiar sound of my dad dropping his boots in the mud room and the bang of the pipes as he turns on the water in the kitchen.
In the dark, I can’t see the faded lines of my mom’s drawing, but I feel the weight of my baby eyes staring at me.
Quickly but carefully, I put everything back into the box and tuck it under my arm. Silently, I close the door to the guest room, which feels like an absurd name for it now. It was my mother’s room, not the one she slept in, but the one where she created things.
I stash the box in my closet under a pile of clean clothes I never bothered to hang up. I hide it not only because I want to keep it a secret but because I’m not sure I want to read it.
In the bathroom, I splash water on my face and dry it on a hand towel that doesn’t smell very fresh. My eyes are only a little red, and I doubt my dad will notice. As I head down for dinner, all my thoughts are on the box in my closet.
