CASSANDRA’S ALREADY THERE WHEN I get to the park. From the ground I can see her, perched high on the huge, smooth dome of the whale’s back. She gestures, Come up.
“I’ve got it,” she says happily as I collapse beside her. The book is in her lap.
“The spell?”
She nods. “So perfect. At first I was like, Hm, gutless, gutless, that’s a good image. Got to be something there, some way to attack his insides.…”
“Puking his guts out?”
She nods approvingly. “Like that. Save it.” She opens the book, turns it so I can see. “See what you think of this.”
A SPELL FOR SILENCE
As I stare, the words seem to rise off the page. I feel hypnotized by them. Maybe it’s that Cassandra has awesome handwriting. She’s a total artist. But it’s hard not to feel that the words alone have some kind of power.
Cassandra explains, “You know, ’cause he didn’t speak up for you.”
When I don’t answer, she tugs the book back. “Okay, not working for you.”
“No!” I grab the book. Then instantly let it go. I shouldn’t be yanking her Book of Shadows around. “No, I love it. I’m …”
How to put this?
“What would it do to him?”
“Put him into a deadly coma from which he never awakes, thus ensuring his silence for eternity.”
Her face is completely straight. Too straight.
I say, “Come on.”
She laughs. “Sorry, had to. You looked so freaked. No, what it will do is make him unable to speak, but not hurt him. And we can do it light. Just for a day or two, if you want.”
“How will it silence him?”
“Um, I believe the correct answer is … ‘magic’?” She looks at me: Duh.
“No, I know, but it won’t like, twist up his throat so he can’t breathe, right?”
“Do you want it to?”
“Only every other Tuesday.”
She grins, pleased that I got the joke this time. “No, this is a nonlethal spell. Technically, you’re supposed to use it against other witches so they can’t cast a spell on you. It’s a defensive move. I just liked the imagery of it, since his silence cast a spell on you and did harm.”
I like it too. I also like having Cassandra on my side, telling me that what people are doing to me is not cool. That I am not a skank.
I ask, “So how long, do you think?”
“How many days?”
I nod.
“Whatever you think is fitting.”
I think. How many days have I been in hell? It’s been almost a month since Chloe found out about me and Oliver. Thirty days. Is he responsible for all those phone calls and texts before school started?
No. But once it did, it’s a different story. He might say he has no idea what Chloe’s doing—but he does. School started two weeks ago—fourteen days. Should Oliver suffer in silence for that long?
Not, I tell myself, that I actually believe in any of this. But it’ll make me feel better to do something.
Fourteen days is too long, I decide. Say this spell actually does something to Oliver’s throat. Fourteen days of messing with your vocal cords has to do some damage. I don’t want anything permanent.
On the other hand, I don’t want anything trivial either.
When could Oliver be silent and it would really, really hurt him? But not forever.
Then I remember: his Amnesty interview. Four days from now.
I really freeze up if I have to talk under pressure. Why not strike where he’s weak?
I smile. “I think one week is sufficient.”
Cassandra lifts the book to the sky. “One week be it.”
The wind picks up, and the pages flutter like bird’s wings.
You can’t see it when you enter the park, but the rock has a large square cavern cut into it, almost as if the whale had a vast slice of blubber cut out of its side. Three sides are rock face, while the high wire fence to the playground faces you. Since there are trees and bushes planted on the playground side, no one can see what you’re doing. It’s the perfect place to drink, smoke weed—
Or do witchcraft. So that’s where Cassandra and I go. Down into the pit.
We begin by finding a piece of rock. It has to be thin, although Cassandra won’t tell me why. Finally, I find a sliver of dark shale.
“That’ll work,” says Cassandra.
We sit on the ground facing each other, the piece of shale in the middle. Then Cassandra reaches into her bag and takes out a small velvet pouch.
“How are you with blood?” she asks.
I have an immediate image of a slashed throat, blood gushing with every heartbeat. I shake it off.
“Um, define quantity.”
Cassandra holds up a large needle. It’s silver with a gold point. “A mere pinprick.”
I hold out my finger. “Okay.”
We arrange ourselves in a circle. “Okay,” she says, wiping my finger with an alcohol swab. “I’m going to draw blood. When I do, your job is to write an ‘O’ on the stone.”
“For ‘Oliver.’ ” She nods. “Will it work with just an ‘O’?”
“It’s harder than you think to get blood.” She smiles. “So, I think ‘O’ will have to do. Just keep him firmly fixed in your mind.”
She takes my hand in hers, her skin hot with tension. Then she holds up the needle. “Don’t look.”
I turn my head, stare off into the trees. As I do, I let images of Oliver come into my head. Oliver laughing at the party, the feel of him against me on the street …
No, these are nice images. I want the real Oliver, the one I don’t like.
Oliver not looking at me. Oliver with his dumb Uhhh. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.
The stab of the needle hurts like hell. My hand jerks at the pain. Cassandra grips it tightly.
“Okay,” she says. “Go.”
My mind stuck on Oliver, confused by pain, it takes me a moment to remember what we’re supposed to be doing. Then, with a dim memory of becoming blood sisters with Amy somebody at camp, I squeeze the tip of my finger until a bright red blood ball forms. I start to write on the slab.
The first touch is too much. It leaves a clumsy crimson blotch on the stone, which soaks in.
“More,” says Cassandra.
I squeeze harder, drawing the tip of my finger along the stone. A thin line begins to form.
“Keep going,” she urges. “Think of him. Think of what he did. How he let you down.”
I do, pressing harder and harder until it feels like I’m going to crack my nail.
“Here.” Cassandra grabs my hand, stabs my finger again. I barely feel it, desperate to have enough to complete the circle. I start feeling light-headed, as if it’s gallons I’m pumping instead of droplets. It’s so slow, takes so long.
Weak, I think, don’t be weak. You can do this, you can.
When the two red swoops finally join at the splotch, I burst out laughing with happiness.
“Perfect,” says Cassandra.
Panting, I say, “The blotch isn’t so great.”
“No,” she says, her voice distant. “It’s the primal wound. The first hurt he gave you that started the circle of cruelty. Now you’ve brought it all back to him.”
“That’s right,” I say.
Cassandra takes a deep breath. “Before we go on, I do have to tell you one thing.”
“Okay.”
“The Threefold Law. Or the Law of Return, whichever you prefer,” she says, going back to her jokey voice. “Basically it says whatever energy you put out, you get back. Times three.”
“So, if I make Oliver silent for a week, I could be silent for three weeks.”
She nods. “Or—lose another sense. Your hearing, your sight.”
“In other words, karma’s a bitch.”
“Precisely. Now—do you want to know why I think that won’t happen?”
“Please.”
“I think it won’t happen because the Threefold Law has already been set in motion. We’re making it happen right now. If you do this, you even the score. But that’s just what I think,” she adds uncertainly. “I don’t want to talk you into it.”
“What’s the worst that can happen?” I ask. “So I won’t be able to smell or whatever for a week.”
“You’re sure?”
I nod. “What’s next?”
Cassandra picks up her bag, draws out a nail and hammer. Something is tied around the nail. Two somethings—a small crimson thread and a blue thread, intertwined.
“I took the red thread from Oliver’s backpack,” she explains. “And I took the blue thread from your jeans when you came over.”
I remember Cassandra tugging, her little joke about OCD. “Just had a feeling you’d be needing it.”
She smiles. “Kind of. So, what you do is take this hammer and pound this nail through the ‘O.’ It fixes the spell in place.”
“Like a stake through the vampire’s heart.”
“Probably the same reasoning. I’ll say the words for the spell. And when I’m done, you do your thing.”
I take the nail, place it in the center of the “O.”
Cassandra asks, “Are you ready?”
I nod. She hands me the hammer. “I’m going to start now,” she tells me. “Whatever you do, do not interrupt.”
“Okay.”
Then she closes her eyes. “I call thee spirit, cruel spirit, merciless spirit …”
Cruel? Merciless? I open my mouth.
DON’T interrupt, I hear in my head.
“I call thee, bad spirit, who takes away healing from man. Go and place a knot in O’s throat. In his tongue and his windpipe. Let the knots grow and swell for seven days. Then at the end of seven days, let them be no more. Because I wish it. Amen. Amen. Selah.”
She opens her eyes, looks at me. My turn.
I place the point of the nail in the middle of the “O.” Raise the hammer high. Then I bring it down hard on the head of the nail.
It goes through cleanly. Not a single crack.
Cassandra smiles. “Good.”
We bury the stone and the nail in the ground. I press the hill of earth smooth with my shoe, feel as if I’m stepping on a grave. This time the spell feels much more real than the safety thing we tried in Cassandra’s room. I’m exhausted, like I really did send some serious energy out to Oliver.
The sun is going down, casting flares and shadows around us. The cavern is cold. I remember that the park changes after dark. The creeps come out.
“Are you okay?” Cassandra asks. “It’s intense.”
“It is. But I think I’m all right. What do we do now?”
“Now? We wait. Oh—and I was thinking?”
I nod.
“Maybe it’s best if we don’t hang out so much at school.”
My heart lurches. The sucky thing about being rejected is you start to expect it all the time. “Why?”
Cassandra sighs. “Just, with Ella—I know you two are friends, and I know she can be sweet. But she needs other people’s lives to feed off, you know? I’m not saying she’s a parasite.” She shakes her head. “There I go again, bitch alert. Just … cousins get competitive. Our moms compare us, and it’s a drag. I’m sure Ella gets sick of hearing about my grades, sports, whatever. So, I don’t want the added drama of ‘You stole my bestie!’ You know what I’m saying?”
Remembering Ella’s comments about Cassandra, I can understand what Cassandra means. “I get you.”
“Also, if this works?” She nods back toward the rock. “We don’t want people asking questions. You know, it helped that I could get near Oliver’s stuff without him connecting me to you.”
I nod. Then think, What kind of questions could people ask?
What have we actually done?
The next day, I walk with Ella to school. As she chatters on about this and that, I barely hear her. All I can think is Is it today? Will it happen today?
What if Cassandra’s toying with me? Playing one of her not-so-funny jokes? Oh, my God, you actually believed me? How sad are you?
Or—what if something truly awful happens to Oliver?
Two cars at the corner: Con Ed and a bakery van. If the bakery van moves first, Oliver will be fine. If it’s Con Ed, he’ll be seriously effed up.
The bakery van moves first. I feel an odd sense of relief.
Only I hope that doesn’t mean nothing will happen to him.
When we get to school, I look for some sign of catastrophe. On the stairwell, in the hall, I strain to listen in on conversations, expecting to hear
Oliver fell down a flight of stairs and broke his neck!
Oliver’s cat scratched him and cut a vein in his throat and he bled to death!
Oliver choked on a walnut and died!
But it’s all homework and TV and who said what to who on Facebook. It seems there has been no great tragedy involving Oliver.
Ella asks, “Why are you staring at everyone?”
I blush. “No, nothing.”
Stella Eberly walks past us. I smile hi. Stella used to smile back. But not today. Not since I’ve become the school tramp.
Stupid, Toni, I think as I head to homeroom. Stupid, stupid Toni. Nothing has happened. You have no power. Today will be just another day of Slam the Slut.
Why did I ever believe Cassandra?
Then I see Chloe, Zeena, and Isabelle standing by the water fountain. I stop, try to feel their vibe. Chloe is not crying or hysterical—which she certainly would be if Oliver’s cat had slashed his jugular and he was dead.
But she definitely seems … worried. For one thing, she hasn’t even noticed I’m here.
Inching closer, I hear Chloe say, “Yeah, he texted me saying he wasn’t sure what was wrong.…”
I stop dead, not caring if Chloe sees me. Something is wrong with Oliver. Actually, really wrong. Which means …
Which means the spell worked.
I did it. I have power.
Then Zeena sees me, nudges Chloe in warning. Chloe looks and snarls, “What?”
“She just wants to know about Oliver,” Zeena sneers.
“Sluts have no self-control,” adds Isabelle.
In real rage, Chloe swings her fist backward; it slams into a locker. She screams, “This is none of your business. Get away—or I will hurt you!”
My body is obedient, I start walking. But this time it’s different. This time, I keep my eyes on Chloe. This time, I’m not afraid. When Chloe said she’d hurt me, what I thought was And I’ll hurt you back.
At lunchtime, Ella and I go to Nuts for Soup. As we walk down Eighty-First Street, Ella says excitedly, “Did you hear what happened to Oliver?”
I pretend to have to think about it. “Something with his voice?”
“Yeah!” Ella’s eyes widen and she leans forward. “He totally cannot talk. It started last night and they have no idea why.”
“Wow,” I say in a bored voice.
“And he’s freaking out because his big interview thing is in a few days.”
“Gee.” I reach in my bag and check my phone. As I do, I can feel Ella watching me closely.
“I’m registering total noninterest here,” she says, puzzled.
“You register right,” I tell her.
She looks doubtful, but says, “Well, hey, good for you.”
I nod as if I couldn’t care less. But it’s hard not to punch the air and shriek, “Yes!” I asked the spirits to take away Oliver’s voice—and they did. I wanted him to miss his Amnesty interview—and he will.
It’s amazing. It’s … magic.
Ella says, “Would it be okay if we ditched the soup? I could kill for a cheeseburger.”
There even seems to be less slut baiting today. Either Chloe’s all worried about Oliver so she forgot to send out the daily torture memo—“Everyone eat bananas in front of her at lunch—slowly!”—or maybe I don’t come off as such a victim anymore.
After school, I see Cassandra as I leave the building. She’s leaning against a truck, reading The Crucible. As I approach, she smiles.
We head for the park.
“So …,” I say carefully after a few blocks, “looks like things are working out.”
“I have no idea,” she says blankly. “Let’s find out.”
We climb to the top of the rock. From up here, we can see little kids on the playground. One pushes another off the swing and she cries, runs to her mom. The other kid just takes the swing.
Cassandra crosses her legs, says, “Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“Call him,” she says simply.
I dig my phone out of my bag. “Going to be a little weird if I call and Oliver can’t speak.”
“That’s the final proof that it worked.”
I nod. Punching Oliver’s number, I feel Cassandra, excited and expectant, next to me. That hum.
I can’t wait!
I know, me too!
“Ringing,” I whisper.
She squeezes my wrist.
“Hello?”
A man’s voice. It’s a nice voice, slow, a little tired. Oliver’s dad.
“Hi,” I say. “My name’s Toni. I’m a friend of Oliver’s.”
“Oh.” Hesitation. Worry. I can hear it. It thrills me.
“He wasn’t at school today, so I wanted to call. See if he’s okay.”
From Cassandra, a surge of pleasure. I am lying so well.
“Ah, well, I’m afraid Oliver’s not—” He interrupts himself. “He’s fine. He will be fine.”
“Can I talk to him?”
“No, that’s what I was going to say. I’m afraid you can’t. Oliver’s having a little trouble with his voice.”
I have no idea what heroin feels like, but I can’t imagine it’s better than the rush that courses through me at that moment. I feel in complete control of the entire universe. I know everything worth knowing. I am untouchable, but no one is beyond my power. I reach out, find Cassandra’s hand. Our fingers curl around one another, the rings of our palms sealed together.
“Oh, man,” I say sympathetically.
“Yeah, the doctors aren’t sure what it is.” I grin, all teeth. “They feel it’s stress related and almost certainly not permanent. But obviously, it’s very upsetting.”
“Sure.”
“So I’m afraid he can’t talk to you. I’ll tell him you called, though.”
“No, don’t bother,” I say. “I’ll see him in school. Let the poor guy rest his vocal cords.” I raise my eyebrows at Cassandra, who grins maniacally. “I hope he’s taking it easy,” I add.
Oliver’s dad says, “Well, of course he’s very worried that he might miss the interview on Monday.”
Might. Something horrible occurs to me: What if they can just reschedule it and all of this has been for nothing?
I say, “Well, they’ll set up another one, right?”
“Uh, not really. If he’s not better soon, Oliver has to give his slot to someone else.”
“Oh, no,” I sigh.
“Yes, it’s a bad thing.”
“Tell him I’m sorry,” I manage to say before hanging up.
I toss the phone down and we scream as one, a long shriek of total happiness. Seizing each other’s hands, we dance, hips swaying, feet twitching, singing, “Da, da, da …,” like we’re doing some crazy cha-cha. Cassandra spins me under her arm. I spin her. We dance back-to-back, hands joined. I sing to the sky, “We did it! We did it!”
As we leave the park, I say, “Have you ever done that before? Like—had it work?”
Cassandra hesitates. “Not like that,” she says finally. “Not as well.”
I want so badly for her to tell me what she tried before, how it didn’t work, how I helped her make it work. But I can tell she’s not up for revealing right now.
“We could try it again,” I suggest. “I mean, hey, you helped me. Your turn now.”
She smiles. “Nah, nothing I need right now.”
“Okay,” I say. “But I owe you.”
Cassandra says, “I’ll remember that.”