Witch Test, page 4
Chapter 8
Crow Painting
The stares and whispers are back in full force at school on Monday. Abby’s been awful since her party, but most everyone else seems to have moved on. Now I’m right back to those first days of school when I couldn’t go from one class to the next without feeling like a walking viral meme.
I never should have dared to show my face at the carnival.
Lunch is worse than usual. Daya’s not there, so it’s me and my ex-friends. They’re whispering and shooting me looks as I approach the table. Then Abby spends the entire lunch period pointedly not eating, talking in a loud voice about how much fun the carnival was. Meanwhile, Mia and Gabrielle whisper loudly, things like “Did you see her face when Abby called her a witch?” and “Poor Nathan.”
These are the girls who used to have my back. They’d never let anyone talk to me like this.
At a pool party in fifth grade, Anthony Rodriguez made fun of the scar I have from the accident. Abby grabbed his head and held it underwater for a solid minute, making him apologize when she let him up. Back then I was happy to have my best friend stand up for me.
But this girl in front of me now, taunting me about the “amazing night” I missed out on, when she was the one who made it so miserable for me. This girl who probably coached Mia and Gabrielle on what to say to torture me further. I don’t know who this girl is. Certainly not a best friend.
With five minutes left to lunch, I can’t take it anymore. Pleading with the lunch monitor that I have to use the bathroom, I practically run out of there. My hands shake when I splash cold water on my face. A headache is building at the sides of my head.
It’s a struggle to make it through the afternoon. The worsening headache keeps me distracted from the unwanted attention of my classmates. In English class, we’re reading The Crucible aloud, so I’m able to rest my head on my hand and pretend I’m reading along.
It’s a small miracle Abby isn’t on the bus ride home, probably at soccer practice. I tuck my legs up on the bus seat, curl my arms around them, and rest my head there. Closing my eyes makes the headache worse as the bus bumps along, so I stare out the window and retreat into myself, the noise of the others fading to a dull buzz in the background.
When the bus pulls up in front of my house, my eyes feel heavy and I’m kind of achy, so I wonder if I’m coming down with something.
It’s another perfect fall day, the sky a picturesque blue for the yellowing oak tree at the bottom of the hill. I get off the bus and yawn so long my eyes water, distorting the tree branches into something strange and beautiful.
Safe at home at last, I head to the bathroom and realize why I’m feeling so awful. I have my period. Ugh. I should keep better track of it. I wonder if it would be too weird to have Aunt Candy text me a heads-up about it. Then I quickly decide that it would definitely be weird.
I make the special tea Candy mixed for cramps and manage to eat half an English muffin with fresh marmalade. Then I wander into the living room and think about binging a show until dinner. Daya mentioned a documentary on women artists that sounded interesting, but I’m not in the mood for it. I’m definitely not in the mood for my former favorite show, the one Abby and I used to always watch together. Whenever Declan—the hottie demigod—would take off his shirt, we’d scream in delight. But now the show just makes me sad.
Briefly I consider reading my mother’s diary, tucked away in my closet, but I resist the temptation. I’m enough of a hot mess as it is.
The air in the house feels stale enough to choke on, so I open a bunch of windows and a nice breeze rushes in. I shiver and go upstairs to find my favorite hoodie.
I walk out of my room while simultaneously pulling my head through the sweatshirt and notice an open door at the end of the hallway. It’s the door to my mother’s art studio—I can’t bear to think of it as the guest room.
My dad never goes in there, so I must have forgotten to close it after I left last night. I wonder if he noticed and it made him think of my mom. Not that he’d talk about it with me.
I tread lightly down the hallway, even though I’m the only one home, and peek into the room. The sheer white curtains billow out from the window like a ghost reaching out from the afterlife. I shiver and shove my hands into the big pocket in the front of my sweatshirt. I must have forgotten to close the window, too.
I find myself standing in front of the closet again. My stomach feels funny, and not from period cramps. I think of the last drawing I did back in fifth grade—a self-portrait—and wonder if my face was the last thing my mom drew as well.
Drawing has no appeal to me right now, but as I stare at the oil paints in the plastic bins in the closet, my fingers itch to create something.
I pull out an entire bin and set it by the window, tying back the curtains so they don’t ghost out on me again. I find an easel under the bed and set it up. The fresh white canvas begs for color, but I’m not in the mood for something bright.
Black is what I reach for, squeezing a blob of it onto the palette. A crow caws outside, perched once again on the dying pine tree. Its dark feathers catch the sunlight when its wings shake. I pause, waiting for it to fly away, but it simply caws again and settles in nice and still.
That’s when my hand starts moving. Sticking with black paint, I start with the tree branch. Paint has never been my medium of choice—I always preferred a charcoal pencil—but the light strokes of the brush happen with little effort. Pretty soon I’ve moved on from the tree to the bird, which obediently perches on the branch like it’s posing for me.
The black paint is the right starting point. I try adding white to get the shine of the feathers, but it doesn’t look right. I stare at the bird, the paintbrush handle tapping against my lip. There is more than black to this crow. I squirt some purple on the palette and try a dash of it.
I haven’t quite caught the right color when the crow opens its wings and lets out a series of caws, almost like a warning, before flying out of the tree and away toward the woods.
I breathe in deep and feel like it’s my first proper breath all day.
The sunset tells me that I’ve been in here longer than I thought. I better get dinner going. I stash the easel under the bed and put the paints away in the closet.
The canvas glistens wet, and I’m not sure where to hide it. I want to keep it a secret from my dad, though I’m not sure why. I don’t think he would mind me painting in here, but it might make him sad.
I take the painting into my room and clear a space in my closet, being careful not to disturb the pile of clothes hiding the diary. I place a towel on the ground and set the canvas on it. Then I head to the kitchen, leaving the closet brimming with secrets.
Chapter 9
Witch Game I
On Tuesday morning, I’m at my locker when a wave of cramps hits me so hard that I have to stoop over and lean against the open locker door until the pain stops. I drank the last of Aunt Candy’s tea last night and could really have used some this morning. I take a few deep breaths and tell myself that I can get through this.
A knock on the other side of the open locker door startles me upright. I close the door with a metallic click to see who’s there.
Daya looks really pretty today with eye make-up and lipstick, which I don’t think she usually wears. Her dark hair is smooth and extra shiny in the harsh school lighting. It reminds me of the crow’s feathers.
After the painting session, I was too tired to do much more than make dinner and crash, and I haven’t thought about the painting since. Now the itch to create rises in me.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Oh…yeah.” Heat rises in my cheeks. I’m so not interested in talking about my period with Daya. With Abby, sure, back when we were friends, and there’s no getting around talking about it with my aunt. But Daya’s too much of an unknown; some people get weird about stuff like that. “You look nice.”
Now she’s blushing, and I hope that she doesn’t think I’m weird for saying that. That’s a thing I miss about old friends: the ability to talk and not second-guess everything that comes out of my mouth. At least it used to be like that with Abby. Toward the end of our friendship, I was self-conscious about a lot of things.
“The art club is sponsoring a showing of student work at the cafe tonight.” She gestures at the dress she’s wearing, which is a deep maroon with an intricate pattern of swirls and shapes on it. “You should come.”
“Tonight?” I say in a squeaky voice. “After dark?”
Daya looks at me quizzically. “Well, yes because it starts at six. My mom and I could pick you up. They’re serving fancy hors d'oeuvres and wine for the grown-ups. But you don’t have to dress up or anything.”
Now I’m self-conscious about my oversized sweater and plain-black leggings as we head down the hallway together. My hair is pulled back in a messy bun. I know I don’t look my best—I was going for comfort, not style.
“Not that you look bad.” Daya sounds apologetic. “You look artistic. I wish I could wear something like that. I’m not allowed to wear leggings without a skirt.”
Her compliment surprises me, like I’m not used to friends being nice. Abby sometimes made me feel bad about my casual style.
“Thanks.” My smile is genuine as we reach my homeroom. “I’d like to go, but I’ll meet you there. I have to stop at Mother Goose Apothecary before that.”
She gives a little wave. “See you then.”
My morning classes fly by, and I avoid the lunchroom by going to the media center to catch up on homework during lunch. I skim-read the next section of The Crucible, thinking we’ll read it aloud in class later.
When I get to English, though, Mr. Juno has something else in mind. “Today we’re going to play a game.”
He smiles as if this is going to be fun, but I groan. I had forgotten he promised us a surprise this week.
He writes “Witch Game” on the board and my palms begin to sweat.
“Everyone is going to draw one paper from this hat.” He holds up a Red Sox hat. “Don’t look yet,” he instructs the first person as the hat goes around. “It’s very important you don’t tell anyone, and I mean anyone, what’s written on your paper.”
The hat’s an old one with sweat stains around the inside rim, but I’m guessing whatever is on these papers is far deadlier than old sweat.
I hold my breath as I reach in and pull one out. It’s folded up, but I slip it under my hand so no one can see it. Abby is the last person to take a slip, and she smiles conspiratorially at Mia as she waves it around.
Mr. Juno collects the hat. “All of the papers have one word written on them. Most of them say ‘innocent.’ But there is one, and only one, that says something else.” He heads back to the front of the room. “There are only three rules you have to follow. The first, as I already said, is don’t tell anyone what your paper says. The second is you can ask your classmates anything except what is on their paper.” Mr. Juno pauses dramatically.
“Can we open ours yet?” Jacob Shanley asks without raising his hand.
“Not yet,” says Mr. Juno. “The third rule is to find,” he pauses again and surveys the room, “the witch.”
“That should be easy.” Abby shoots a pointed look at me, and everyone laughs.
“Alright, settle down.” Mr. Juno holds up a hand. “Now you may open your papers.”
I keep mine folded in my sweaty palm as the rustling of my classmates fills the room. I undo the fold and I know what it’s going to say before I read it. Sure enough, right there in black and white is the word “witch.”
I quickly fold the paper back up, running my finger over the crease again and again.
“So we can lie?” Jacob asks.
“Yes,” Mr. Juno replies.
“Nice.” Jacob slaps hands with Anthony.
Someone else asks a question, but I don’t hear it. It’s like my head is in a vacuum filled with a loud whooshing.
How could Mr. Juno possibly think this is a good idea? Isn’t the point of studying the witch trials to learn not to accuse people of witchcraft? Now we’re going around interrogating everyone to find out who the witch is. What will Abby do when she finds out it’s me? She’s already ruined my life. What’s left? Drown me or burn me at the stake.
I know it’s not the 1600s, but in middle school, singling out one of us is a form of persecution.
“Do you believe in God?” I jump at the sound of Anthony’s voice. He’s standing above me, waiting for an answer. I’m the only one sitting; everyone else is up and about asking questions.
I blink like I just woke up. “What?”
“Do you believe in God?” he asks again.
“Uh, I guess,” I say distractedly. Abby and Mia have Hannah practically cornered and are interrogating her.
“Don’t you want to ask me something?” Anthony stands there with his arms folded across his chest.
My gaze goes back to Abby. “Do you wish harm upon anyone in the class?” My throat is dry, so I sound like a croaky witch.
The question surprises us both. Anthony gives me a strange look, and I’m sure he knows exactly what is written on my paper.
“No, I don’t.” He moves on with a shake of his head.
Great, I blew it with the first person I talked to.
I float around the room, making a half-hearted attempt to be engaged in the game, all the while keeping an eye out for Abby and Mia. I’ve managed to avoid them and am fielding questions from Jacob, doing a better job than I did with Anthony. When he’s done, I turn around to find Abby’s fake smile in my face, orange jack o’ lanterns bobbing from her ears.
She turns to Mia, the smile turning ugly. “I don’t think we need to ask you anything. We all know what you are.”
I bite my bottom lip. I’ve been scared of Abby for a long time, since before she dropped me as her best friend, but I’m not feeling scared right now.
I’m angry.
At Mr. Juno for making us play this stupid game and because everyone except for the witch was labeled as innocent, as if being a witch is a guilty act. At Anthony for asking me about God, as if he has a right to know my beliefs because of a game. At Abby, and Mia and Gabrielle too, for trying to make my life miserable.
Most of all, I’m angry at myself for thinking they were friends to begin with. Because real friends, people who are supposed to love you, shouldn’t treat you this way…ever. Even if they’re mad. Even if they’re afraid I’ll tell their secrets.
A buzzing fills my ears and I’m about to lose control of myself when Mr. Juno claps his hands. The class falls silent, and I’m left standing there with my mouth gaping open, a cauldron poised to spill its poisonous potion all over everyone.
“Everyone back to your seats,” Mr. Juno says, and I wonder what horrible surprise he has for us now. “There is a blank paper at each of your places. I want you to write the name of the person you think is the witch.” He waves the gross hat. “Then I’ll collect them.”
The hat begins to make its way around the tables. I shrug and scribble a name on the paper, figuring it doesn’t matter who I write because I’m sure at least three people are accurately picking me as the witch.
Time is moving strangely today—at times so fast that things go by in a blur and at other times so slow that things play out in excruciating detail.
Mr. Juno’s back in the front of the room, and I don’t remember putting my slip in the hat. “If I read your name, I want you to come stand with me.” He takes out the first paper. I prepare to push my chair back when he says, “Hannah.”
Hannah’s really quiet and seems to take up little space, despite the fact that she’s the tallest girl in eighth grade. Her face is bright red as she takes her place next to Mr. Juno.
He keeps reading names, a few repeats along the way, until nearly everyone in the class is crowded at the front of the room. The only people left are Abby, Mia, Jacob…and me.
I know whose name is on that paper because it’s my slip. I can’t believe the name I wrote hasn’t been said yet. Not by Abby and Mia, or even Anthony Rodriguez, who had a good reason to pick it.
Mr. Juno reads the final name, “Liza.”
I don’t get a chance to take my rightful place among my falsely accused classmates because the bell rings.
As everyone bolts to the seats to grab their stuff, Mr. Juno says, “I want you to remember all the people who stand here with me. Tomorrow they will be put on trial by their peers, led by the three unaccused of Jacob, Mia, and Abby.”
I’m not sure if anyone is listening, but I stand next to my seat, frozen in the act of joining the accused. I can’t believe no one else wrote down my name, that I’m the only one who accused me of being the witch.
Mr. Juno leaves us with one final thought. “I want you all to think about who among your classmates would have testified against you in Puritan times in order to keep themselves out of trouble when it was a real life-and-death situation.”
I watch Abby and Mia whisper as they leave the room shoulder-to-shoulder. They may not have written my name on that slip of paper, but I believe they will have no problem piling on the charges against me, Abby living up to her namesake in The Crucible. The Abigail in the play is the one who led the charge in the lies against the so-called witches.
I wonder if we were still friends would I be leading the charge with them? The answer sits heavy in my stomach.
Chapter 10
My Lips Are Sealed
After school, I head straight to Candy’s shop, which means I can avoid the bus ride home for another day. I opt to walk along the town green rather than the sidewalk. We took a walking field trip through town last year. The green is where they had the stocks and gallows back when Hillford was founded 400 years ago. It’s where they hanged the witches. Hillford’s trials were 25 years before the Salem witch trials, and not as deadly. Though it’s still awful to have killed innocent people, most of them women.
