“HEY,” SHE SAYS AS I approach.
“Hi.”
I can’t help it. I glance at her hands. But the wrists are turned inward. If there are scars, I can’t see them. She’s standing by the window, the afternoon sun lighting her hair.
Now she says, “He totally blew you off, didn’t he?” Her voice is brisk, matter-of-fact.
I look back, wondering if she saw my talk with Oliver. She couldn’t have, I think. Nobody was here, I made sure.…
“I saw Oliver rushing down the stairs. Came here, saw you in tears. Not that hard to figure out.”
For some reason, I laugh. No magic. Just thinking.
“You’re Ella’s friend,” she says.
“Yup.”
“Men suck. You know that, right?”
I smile. “Kinda learning.”
“No.”
“Want to go somewhere?”
“Uh … sure.”
Near the Riverside Playground on Eighty-Third Street, there’s a rock pile. I used to climb on it all the time when I was a kid. The slope is vast and smooth. You look down on the playground; the children look tiny. Look down the other side and you see little benches, a gray path, the big stone wall that surrounds the park. When I was little, I would inch my sneakers up the gray stone of the rock, lift my arms, and pretend I was riding the back of a whale.
Now I’m sitting here with Cassandra Wolfe, of all people. My legs are pulled up, my arms locked around them. Cassandra sits cross-legged, her hair lifting off her forehead in the breeze.
She says, “So I hear you had a crazy summer too.”
Eamonn. For a moment, I think, Does my dad and Oliver and everything else add up to … that? Not really. Still, I say, “I guess we could write some pretty dire ‘What I Did on My Summer Vacation’ essays.”
“Whose horror story first?” she asks. “Yours or mine?”
“You already know mine.”
Cassandra tilts her head to one side, recites, “Girl dares to have actual fun. Then she has actual fun with someone who is supposedly ‘someone else’s’—whatever that means. Girlfriend suddenly realizes she wants him back, so back he goes. They’re all happy. Other girl is branded slut by whole school for the sin of not being boring.”
I smile. Cassandra’s odd, theatrical way of talking is like a secret language; it makes me feel like we’re in a club of tough, clever people.
She says, “You don’t do the boyfriend thing, huh?”
“Not successfully.”
She shrugs. “Maybe you don’t want to. Maybe you don’t care. I’ve noticed: you kind of float around. This guy, that guy.” She raises an eyebrow. “I mean, really. What is that? Don’t you know that as a female in high school your sole mission is to permanently attach yourself to a male in order to receive oxygen, sustenance, and social significance?”
“Crap, I knew I was forgetting something.”
“You broke the rules,” she scolds. “What were you thinking?”
“That I wanted to have some fun?”
“Bitch.”
“I know, right?” I sigh. “So that’s my horror story. What’s yours?”
She rolls her eyes. But I notice she pulls her legs up, wraps her arms around them for protection. “I’m sure you’ve heard it.”
I shake my head. Because I’m not one hundred percent sure which horror story we’re talking about, boyfriend or brother.
“Hasn’t Ella told you? It’s one of her favorites.” She looks out at the Hudson River. “So much excitement. So much fun. When it’s not your pain.”
I almost say, Yeah, Ella does talk about you—because she’s worried about you. But Cassandra meets my eye, danger in her expression. This is not the time to defend Ella.
Then she shakes her head, as if annoyed with herself. “Zuh. Long story short: I fell madly, madly in love with a beautiful, dark-eyed lad who proved to be a lily-livered barstid. He dumped me, alas, alack. Having convinced myself that he was my own true love and read Romeo and Juliet way too many times, I tried to off myself.”
She holds up her wrists. Now I see the scars, faint tracings on her skin. I imagine them open, bleeding.
“Can you believe that?” she says, dropping her arms. “How lame was I?”
“I don’t think it’s lame,” I say truthfully. “It hurt. What’s so great about pretending it didn’t?”
“True,” she agrees. “But really? My aim was way off. I should have slashed his wrists. Or his face. He was such a pretty boy.” She sighs wistfully.
“Why didn’t you?” I joke.
“Blinded by hormones? I don’t know. No”—she gathers herself up—“I was a different person then.”
“How’d you manage that?” I ask.
“Ah, I—”
Then she stops. Wrinkling her nose slightly, she looks toward the river.
“You what?” I prompt.
“That’s a long story.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“No, it’s—” She waves her hands in agitation—the first time I’ve seen her rattled. Almost to herself, she says, “How much craziness can I show you and not have you flee screaming?”
“Tell me.”
She sits for a long moment, staring at my face.
“Not yet,” she says finally.
Then she stands up. “Come on.”
I get up. And follow.
Five blocks later I still have no idea where Cassandra and I are going. To Starbucks? The subway?
Cassandra, what is this?
She’s walking a little ahead of me. I can see her brown hair as it bounces, her battered leather bag, her dark purple sweater.
Suddenly, she turns. “Sorry, I should’ve said. My house is right near. That okay?”
“Yeah,” I say.
She stops. “I mean, if you want to talk about …”
“Yeah, I do.”
She smiles. “Okay.”
And now it hits me: I’m going to a place where a little boy died.
I stop. Cassandra says, “What?”
Uh, I can’t go to your house, your brother just died.
Okay, how rude would that be?
“Nothing. Something I meant to tell my mom.” I wave my arm forward. “Let’s go.”
Cassandra hesitates, like she knows exactly what I was thinking. Then nods.
We keep walking.
Cassandra lives on Central Park West. There is a doorman in a long coat and hat. He nods to Cassandra. She says, “Hey, Walter.” I raise my hand, and Walter nods to me as if I’ve been coming here my whole life. I guess that’s what people like doormen are for, to make you feel important.
“Nice guy,” I say to Cassandra.
“Walter?” She smiles. “He knows all secrets.”
“O-kay.” I’m starting to figure out how to deal with Cassandra’s mysterious statements: match her joking tone.
The lobby is a long, ornate cavern, like a hallway in some Russian mansion. Low benches covered in dark red velvet. Frosted glass keeping the light out. Tall claw-foot lamps glowing weakly. Mirrors everywhere you look. Mirrors on the wall, on the ceiling. You look up and there’s your head floating in the air.
Laughter. A ripple of it, disappearing as suddenly as it came. I pause, not sure: did I hear that?
“What?” says Cassandra. A little impatient. I guess it’s not the first time I’ve stopped.
“Uh, no.” I shake my head. “I thought I heard something.”
She takes me by the arm, pulls me toward the elevator. “Come on. You need tea.”
In the silent hum of the elevator, I pull the sound from my memory. I did hear it. High, immediate laughter. Bright but thin. The sound comes from a skinny body, a young body …
A little boy’s body.
We come out of the elevator onto the twelfth floor. Cassandra fishes in her pocket, pulls out a ring of keys, and opens the door.
What I’m most scared of? That one of her parents will be home and I’ll have to say something.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “My parents are at work.”
I don’t know what I expected: The whole place draped in black? Organ music and wailing family members? But Cassandra’s apartment is completely ordinary. Short hallway with a coat closet. Dining room table just as you come in. The galley kitchen beyond that. A sunken living room, that’s the big thing you notice. And a lot of books lining the walls.
“Wow,” I say. “Sunken living room. My mom would kill.”
“It’s a pain,” she says. “You always trip. I’ll make tea.”
I’m about to say, Actually, I’m not a big tea person, but then I shut up. I don’t have to drink, I can just sip.
Opposite the dining table there’s a low, dark bureau. On top are family photos. My eye avoids, then finds Cassandra, then Eamonn.
He’s skinny. With a big, cute-ugly clown grin. Curly hair.
“That’s Eamonn.” I jump, turn to see Cassandra behind me. “Well, obviously.”
“He’s cute,” I say, to say something
“You think?” She sits down. “I guess. He’s a little kid. What’s not cute?”
She’s brought out spoons for the tea. She taps one on the place mat. It makes a small, dull thud.
Trying to give her a chance to talk about it, I ask, “Does the place seem empty without him?”
There’s a long pause. Cassandra stares hard at the table. “Honestly? It seems quiet. Did I mention I like quiet?”
The kettle shrieks. Cassandra goes into the kitchen and pours the boiling water into two cups. “You think that’s sucky of me, right?” she says, bringing in the mugs. “To say I like quiet?”
“No.” I take the mug. “Death seems way too complicated to have only appropriate feelings about.”
“Yeah.” She nods, but her face is closed. She sips her tea. I sip mine. Surprisingly, I like it.
She sees my surprise. “Yeah, it’s different.”
“It is.” I sip again. Almost no flavor, but fresh like grass. Then a sourness.
“It’s not actually something I want to talk about,” says Cassandra abruptly. “I hope that’s okay.”
“No. No, that’s—” I decide to borrow her word. “That’s okay.”
“Just it’s … ah …” She looks away.
“You don’t have to give it a neat little word,” I tell her. “ ‘Horrible’ or whatever. I get it.”
“Thank you.” She nods, drinks her tea. Then she adds, “Although, we do seem to have this weird thing.”
I laugh a little; it’s hard keeping up with Cassandra. She’s like a good basketball player, dodging left, right, faking you out all the time.
She says, “At certain times—I totally know what you’re thinking.”
“Yeah,” I say after a moment. “I feel that way, too.” Talking about the voice thing makes me feel shy for some reason.
“That first day at school? When you came up to me and were all ‘I’m sorry’?” She laughs. “You were so pissed when I didn’t react.”
There’s something about Cassandra’s tone I’m not loving. I say, “I’m not sure it takes a mind meld to figure that out.”
“ ‘Screw you.’ That’s just what you were thinking. I knew.”
“Yup.”
“ ‘I was just trying to be nice,’ ” Cassandra whines, mimicking me.
I feel slapped. Suddenly, I’m reminded that Cassandra doesn’t have friends. Even Ella doesn’t like her—and Ella likes everybody. When someone has no friends, there’s usually a reason. This has all been a joke, a trick on Cassandra’s part to get me here and insult me for some weird reason.
“Was I just a bitch?” Cassandra asks. Her voice is quiet, worried. Like she’s coming out of an epileptic fit and she’s not sure what she did.
“Kind of.”
She nods. “I do that sometimes. Bad habit. Let me make it up to you.”
She gets up and I feel how tall she is.
“Come on, I’ll show you how I changed after Pretty Boy.”
We go in the back of the apartment to Cassandra’s room. It’s dark, with the curtains closed. A fluffy dark red rug muffles our steps. The ceiling feels lower in here, though it could just be the gloom. The bed is unmade, with books and papers all over it. Most of one wall is taken up with bookshelves. It’s a cave, I think.
This is what I thought it would feel like, I realize. In this whole apartment, Cassandra’s room is the only one where you feel sadness.
Cassandra switches on a small light near her bed. A red-orange glow. I sit down on the bed. Cassandra goes to her closet.
I want to make a joke—vampires hating light, that kind of thing. But I’m getting a strong non-joke vibe. Cassandra is on her knees, her back to me, rummaging through her stuff. Then she stands. There’s a notebook in her hand, her handwriting on the cover.
Crap, I think, I bet it’s her poetry.
The book clasped to her chest, she says, “So. By any chance, have you ever cast a spell?”
It takes me a moment to understand. “Spell? As in magic?”
She nods, then sits down. “I don’t mean Harry Potter, bibbity-bobbity-boo crap. I mean sending out your energy as an agent of change.”
I nod deeply like I understand and take this seriously. “Aha.”
“I mean, I was thinking. What have Chloe and her friends really done to you? They haven’t hit you or beat you up.”
“Yet.”
“But they’re making your life hell—and how? By making you a target. Using what? Psychic power. They’ve turned everyone’s nasty, ugly, sneering energy beams toward you, like a thousand little ray guns. It’s not an accident that there are three of them. Spells are way more powerful when you work with others.”
She puts the book on the floor. “So I’d be happy to be your other. In honor of individual truth versus conformity.”
Spells. Energy beams. I have an image of Chloe, Isabelle, and Zeena in witches’ hats. Hesitant, I say, “Not so sure it’s magic. I mean, you could just call it general bitchery.”
She smiles, picks the book up off the floor. “Okay, we don’t have to.”
As she turns to put the book away, I blurt out, “No, wait—”
“What’s the book?” I ask lamely.
The book hovers. “Ah—I can’t show it to you if you’re not into it. I’m not supposed to.”
“Who says I’m not into it?”
She hesitates. “Just, it’s not a joke.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to treat it as a joke.”
“No, I know. But it won’t work unless you take it somewhat seriously.”
She sits down next to me on the floor. “Look—normally, I don’t get this weird on a first date. But I feel like we have some kind of bond. I mean, yes, you got dicked over and I got dicked over. You had an evil summer, I did too. I feel like we’re in the same psychic place. Which is really rare for me, because usually, my psychic space is not a place people want to be in, you know? Just not pretty.”
She grins for a moment. Then stops, peers at me. “Did something else happen this summer? Not the parties. Something that hit your family, made you feel like the whole world was coming apart?”
Ella, I think immediately. She told Cassandra about my dad. My dad and Katherine.
Only—she couldn’t have. Because I haven’t told Ella.
“Maybe,” I say carefully.
Cassandra nods. She already knew, I realize. Not the details, but that something happened. Because she’s right: we are in the same psychic space. And it’s not pretty. It’s an ugly, spiky place where you feel sick to your stomach all the time. And I’m tired of being alone in there.
“I’m in,” I say. Although I tell myself I only half mean it.
She smiles, prepares to open the book. “Antonia, meet my Book of Shadows. Book of Shadows, meet Antonia.”
It’s an incredibly thick book. The paper itself is heavy, almost like what you’d use for drawing. And it’s stuffed with clippings and sketches and writing. As Cassandra flips through, I see that every page is covered with her scribbles.
We’re sitting cross-legged on the floor. I peer into Cassandra’s lap, but she’s turning the pages too fast for me to really read anything.
“Traditionally, spell begging—or curse begging, which I assume you need—is frowned upon.” She sees my confusion and explains, “Asking people versed in the occult to cast a spell for you.”
She squints at the book, still searching for something. Leaving me to wonder, Is that what I’m doing? Asking her to cast a spell? On who? For what?
And, by the way, this is insane and I don’t believe in this?
But I do understand what Cassandra said about sending out your energy. I remember Chloe and her friends surrounding me, suffocating me with their hate. That was some real nasty energy. And I wouldn’t mind sending it back.
“So,” says Cassandra. “I guess my first question is: who’s the target?”
“How do you mean?”
“Who are we casting the spell on? It can’t be a general ‘go fuck yourself.’ ”
I point to the book. “That’s not in there? Bummer.”
“Just stronger if it’s specific.”
I think. Oliver. Chloe, Isabelle, Zeena. All those guys calling me for “appointments.” I have a lot of people to hate.
“What happened this afternoon?” Cassandra asks. “Let’s focus on that.” She tugs on a loose thread on the cuff of my jeans. “Sorry, I’m a little OCD.”
I think. My talk with Oliver seems so long ago now. “I was asking Oliver to talk to Chloe.”
“So she’d quit with the evil energy.”
I nod. “Or maybe just tell people that what she was saying about us wasn’t exactly the whole truth and nothing but.”
“And?”
“He acted like he didn’t even believe she’s doing it.”
“So he’s keeping his mouth shut.”
“Yep.”
“So he’s a gutless barstid.”
“Basically.”
“What a jerk. You got some bad taste, lady.”
“Blaming the victim,” I joke.
“Don’t be the victim,” she says seriously. “So, sounds like Oliver’s a good target.”
I hesitate. I’m mad at Oliver, but I don’t hate him. Not like I hate Chloe.
“You’re thinking he’s cute and it’s Chloe who’s the super-bitch,” says Cassandra.
“Yeah,” I say sheepishly. “Sort of. I mean, he’s … nervous. Like, he has this big interview coming up and he’s already freaking out.…”
“I got you.” Her voice is easy. “It’s always easier to blame the other chick. That’s how guys get away with their crap.”
Like Chloe blames me, while Oliver gets forgiven, I think. Cassandra has a point.
“But,” Cassandra says cheerfully, “if you’re not feeling in revenge mode, we can do a safety spell. See if we can get some protection going for you against Chloe.”
“That sounds good.”
Cassandra flips through the pages. “One Spell for Banishing a Demon coming right up.”
Cassandra gets some incense out of her bureau drawer and lights it. It smells nasty, but she says it has to, to work. Then she opens the Book of Shadows.
“Repeat after me,” she says. “Lofaham—”
“Lofaham.” I try not to think how ridiculous the word sounds.
“Solomon—”
“Solomon.”
As she chants and I answer, the incense grows heavier. I feel dizzy.
“Don’t lose it,” whispers Cassandra. “Stay focused. Really try to feel it.”
And I try. I do. I try to gather my will, make it stronger than Chloe’s. I try to feel the smoke is a fog, hiding me from Chloe’s hatred. A shield against her anger.
But in my head, I know it’s just cheap incense from Urban Outfitters. All it can do is give me a headache.
When we’re done, Cassandra says, “I think it worked. I think I felt something.”
“Yeah, I felt it, definitely.”
But we’re both lying. I didn’t feel a thing and neither did she. And if we didn’t feel it, it won’t work.
My will is not stronger than Chloe’s. She’s angry; I’m afraid. Anger always wins over fear.
From beyond the door, we hear the click-clack of a lock turning. “Crapazoodie,” says Cassandra. “That’s my mom.”
I stiffen.
“Don’t sweat it,” she says as she scrambles off the bed to put the Book of Shadows back in the closet. “She doesn’t want to talk about it any more than you do. What she will almost certainly do is ask you—nay, beg you—to stay to dinner so that for once we have something to talk about. My advice: run for your life.”
“I have my own awkward dinner to go to, unfortunately.”
Cassandra laughs, her weird little bark that is the opposite of a giggle.
We hear “Cassandra? Honey?”
“ ‘Hey, Ms. Wolfe, nice to meet you,’ ” Cassandra instructs me in a whisper. “That’s all you have to do.”
She yanks the door open. “Hey, Mom!”
A woman comes around the corner, still in her coat and carrying a briefcase. She is little, with short, feathery hair and hard lines around her mouth. Next to her, Cassandra looks even more gargantuan. “Oh, hello,” she says, seeing me. She looks up at Cassandra with an odd mix of …
Hope?
Fear?
“Mom,” says Cassandra, “this is Antonia from school.”
“Hi.” Ms. Wolfe drops her briefcase on the floor, comes forward to shake my hand. I feel her eagerness like a big wet pink pillow about to slam into me.
“Hi, Ms. Wolfe. Nice to meet you.”
Cassandra smiles.
“And now,” says Cassandra, “Antonia from school has to go home.”
“Oh.” The pink pillow deflates, starts to sag. “She could certainly stay for dinner.” She looks back at me. “You’d be absolutely welcome.”
Her need is so huge, her pain so out there, it’s like looking at a mirror that’s shattered but still holding together—only just—a maze of jagged cracks on the verge of collapse. Saying no to her seems cruel. Glancing at Cassandra, I say, “Well, I could—”
“She’s got her own awkward dinner to go to, Mom,” says Cassandra, guiding me toward the front door.
As we hurry through the dining area to the entryway, Cassandra whispers, “First lesson: no mercy.”
But your mom hasn’t done anything to me, I want to say. She deserves mercy. From, like, the whole world.
“It won’t help her,” says Cassandra, “and it’s a habit you need to break. Trust me. Bye, Antonia from school,” she says loudly as she opens the door. “I’ll think about that other thing.”
“Cool,” I say loudly, as if we’re talking about homework.
The door closes. As I start for the elevator, I suddenly feel lost. The long corridor stretches before me with its unknowable doors and strange light. Where am I? I wonder for a moment. And where am I going?
Forward, I hear in my head.
So that’s where I go.
“My goodness,” says my mom as I come in the door. “We were starting to think you’d run off with the circus.”
She is sitting at the dining room table, her laptop and a glass of wine in front of her.
My dad is in the kitchen. I hear the hiss of the frying pan, smell garlic and onion. The air in the apartment is thick with cooking—and something else. Something … not pleasant.
My dad appears at the kitchen window. “Table set?” he asks my mom.
She moves her eyes back to the screen in front of her. “Almost,” she says.
I look at the table. It’s a mess, covered with mail, my mom’s papers, and old newspapers. Her coat hangs over a chair. There is nothing set here. My dad waits at the window, growing more frustrated with every second. My mom pretends not to notice, keeps typing. Every click of every key can be heard in the silence. I feel all this ugly emotion tangled like a mess of wire above our heads, sparking and hissing with dangerous energy. The longer my parents don’t speak, the longer my mom refuses to look at my dad, the stronger that killer energy—the Katherine energy—gets.
I can set the table. The words form in my head, ready to be spoken. I imagine myself clearing the table, laying out the plates, chatting about this or that. My mom will talk to me; so will my dad. Eventually, they’ll end up talking to each other. Katherine will fade out.
But then I remember what Cassandra said when I felt like I needed to be nice to her mom: It won’t help her, and it’s a habit you need to break.
“Let me know when we’re ready,” I say, and go to my room.
Dropping my stuff on the floor, I lie on my bed. From outside, I hear the thud of a pot on the counter. My dad saying, “Claire?” and my mom, exasperated, “Yes, God, okay—”
They probably will get a divorce, I think calmly. My dad will move in with Katherine. In which case, I will definitely live with my mom.
Because even though she should have set the stupid table if she said she was going to? My dad shouldn’t have cheated on her. And he shouldn’t expect that everything’s forgiven just because he said he was sorry. You let people down, you deserve to be punished. Because otherwise? Anyone can get away with anything.
My phone buzzes. I have a text. I look at the number. Ah, yes, Chloe.
A little bird tells me you talked to O today. That’s a no-no. Punishment awaits.
Guess that protection spell didn’t work out. No big surprise. Cassandra said you had to feel it. I didn’t feel a thing.
I’m feeling it now, though. Quite strongly.
I text Cassandra:
I’m feeling revenge.
Maybe Cassandra’s my prince, I think. Or wicked witch. Or whatever. I don’t care at this point.
A moment later, I get a text back. Meet me at the rock after school.