“FUN,” I THINK ON THE way home. What will “fun” feel like? Will I wake up tomorrow and not be able to see? Or move? Will I wake up tomorrow at all?
What am I fighting here? I ask myself. What can Cassandra really do?
Whether the magic is real or not, Cassandra has power. Because anger has power.
She’s going to attack Ella, obviously. She’s already got the hex going, and it’s working. Ella’s frightened, feeling weak. Eventually, Cassandra will cast a spell. But what kind? And will I see it coming?
One thing I’ve denied her is a coven. Cassandra has told me spells are way more powerful when you work with others. She might say she can work a spell by herself, but the fact that she brought it up tells me she’s not sure what the result will be.
If she does try to find an ally, who would she choose? I was Cassandra’s only real friend this year. Ella is a natural target at our school, people do make fun of her and roll their eyes. Cassandra’s an outsider, people think she’s weird. She can’t get someone else to pick on Ella the way Chloe used the whole school against me.
How does Cassandra think this war will be fought? If she sees this as a battle between two witches, how do we attack? How do we defend?
How do I win?
The next day, it hits as I walk into school, the gut-tightening feeling of terror I had at the beginning of the year. The knowledge that someone in this building wants to hurt me. I feel like Cassandra can sense that I’m here, she knows where I am. And when she’s ready, she’ll …
Okay, chill, chickarina. It’s Ella, not you, who is Cassandra’s target. And this is a school. Cassandra can’t bring a truck into a school.
I used to be miserable that I had no classes with Cassandra; now, obviously, I’m relieved. No heavy textbooks dropped on my hand. No acids thrown in my direction. But I have no classes with Ella, either: I can’t watch out for her.
I have study period before lunch, and I head to the library. Before now, the library was just a fun place to see if you could make out without anyone spotting you. Now I actually want to find a book. A very particular kind of book. Something that might help me fight a very powerful, pissed-off witch. I don’t have time to write my own Book of Shadows. But Cassandra must have gotten her spells from somewhere. Maybe if I can find a book with the spells, I can learn how to beat them back.
I glance over at Mr. Hallows, the librarian. He’s cool in a goony kind of way. But I don’t see asking him if he has a witchcraft battle manual.
Witches, I think, letting my fingers trail over the books’ spines. What do witches do? Where do they get their power?
The only books I find are on the Salem witch trials. I did a report on them in fifth grade, but all I really remember is a bunch of girls freaking out that witches were after them, and anyone who didn’t go to church fifty million times a day was condemned to death, because hey, it was the sixteen hundreds and the Puritans were batshit crazy.
I open one of the books to an image of a young girl in a dark, heavy dress. She’s rolling around on the courthouse floor, supposedly possessed. Behind her, other girls are screaming and pulling their hair out as they accuse their neighbors of casting evil spells on them. I wonder, was it all a game to them, a way to get at people they didn’t like? Did they really talk themselves into believing witches were torturing them? Maybe some sixteen hundreds version of me and Cassandra were actually zapping them with evil energy.
I read:
Some historians believe that those who claimed to be afflicted by witches may have been in the grip of mass hysteria in response to Indian attacks or other outside threats. Others point to motivations such as jealousy, spite, or the need for attention.
Chloe, I think, believing I was out to get her. Then I remember her fight with Hannah, her outrage when she couldn’t control everything. And she convinced her friends that she was my victim. I remember how Chloe, Zeena, and Isabelle pinned me against the wall, the creepy way they moved as one, like zombies. Must. Get. The. Slut. Talk about mass hysteria.
Poor Princess Chloe, the evil slut out to get her.
Or the evil witch, I think. And let’s be honest, we did get her.
Or did we? We got drunk and had a satanic slumber party. Chloe got hit by a truck because she was drunk and not paying attention. Alcohol, that’s the big “magic” here.
But that’s not all, I think uneasily. It’s not that simple.
Looking back at the book, I think how weird it is that everyone believed these girls. No one said, Hold up, wait. Just because these chicks say they’re getting pinched and poked by demons doesn’t make it so. It’s like people wanted to believe that their neighbors were evil, that they deserved to be hanged and burned and crushed. It’s like, Aha—there’s the danger! If we just stamp that out, everybody will be safe. If you get rid of the man-stealing slut, no one will get dumped by their boyfriend again.
Not to mention, people enjoy a good hanging. How much was happening in old Salem in the sixteen hundreds? Kind of fun to whip yourself into a frenzy and drag anyone who doesn’t strike you as “your kind” to the hangman. How do you know you’re righteous unless someone else gets pegged as a sinner?
All it takes is a few kids deciding another kid is creepy or lame or weird, and the whole school agrees. How many times do any of us say, “Hey, I like so-and-so,” once the hex of unpopularity has been set? And if so-and-so gets teased or ignored or …
… gets her head shoved in the toilet …
how many of us say, “Hey, not cool”?
Ella, meanwhile, is a nervous wreck. All her life, she may have felt Cassandra hated her—but now she knows it for sure. This does not make spending eight hours a day in the same building with her at all easy. So far, Cassandra has made no major moves. But the hex campaign is still going strong—and working, big-time.
On the walk to school, Ella says, “I’m terrified of bumping into her in the hallway. I can’t even go to the bathroom.”
“Just be happy you don’t have classes or homeroom with her.”
“Yeah, but the other day? I was in the cafeteria having lunch. Cassandra was sitting a few tables away and just … staring at me. Like she was wishing I would choke. I couldn’t even finish eating, she weirded me out so much.”
She looks at me, hoping I have advice, something that can help her. I wish I did.
“Maybe once they get into therapy, this will all die down,” I say.
“Maybe,” says Ella doubtfully. “God, why did I have to say anything? Seriously, sometimes I think my life would be better in every way if I just kept my mouth shut.”
Every day feels like a waiting game. I walk down the hallways wondering if I’ll catch Cassandra doing … what? I don’t even know what I’m watching out for. Other than giving Ella the evil eye, Cassandra seems to be avoiding her. All I can hope for is that once her family starts the sessions, the grief and weirdness will ease up. Maybe one day, Cassandra will feel like Ella did her a favor.
And one day, maybe I’ll be besties with Zeena.
Then one night, Ella calls me. She’s crying.
“What?” I say. “What happened?”
“I’m scared,” she says.
“Okay, I’m here. Why?”
I hear her sniffle as she tries to get it together. “Well, this weekend’s my mom’s birthday, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And we always go out to dinner. To celebrate. Only this time, my mom says my aunt, uncle, and Cassandra are coming too.”
“Oh, God.”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do. She says this is a time we should be together, like, support each other, and I’m like, Now? Now we have to do this?”
“Okay, calm down. Cassandra can’t do anything to you in front of your folks.”
“It freaks me out just to be in the same building as her. Imagine the same table. My stomach hurts.”
“Just pretend she’s not there.”
“I feel her, I swear, even when I can’t see her.”
I have a nasty memory twinge of how Chloe said the same thing about me the night she died.
“Bring your phone and text me the whole time,” I tell Ella. “That’ll keep your mind off your family.”
She laughs a little. “My mom would kill me.”
“Well, better her than Cassandra.”
Saturday night, I eat early, then go to my room and take up position on my bed. Ella said the dinner would start at seven. At six-thirty, I send her,
COURAGE!
Which must remind her of the Cowardly Lion because she texts back, I do believe in spooks, I do believe in spooks.
Quit it.
Text from Ella at 7:05. Okay, this is 50 shades of hell.
I text back, I’m right here.
At 7:12, Ella texts, Bread’s here, yay!
I text, Saved by the carbs!
At 7:18, Whoever invented mozzarella, I love you.
I text, :)
7:23. The waiter’s hot. I think you’d like him.
I type back, Down, girl.
Then at 7:26. Oh, crap, they remembered I exist …
I text COURAGE! again and set the phone down. If Ella’s family is talking to her, it might take a while for her to answer me.
After ten minutes, I check the phone. Nothing from Ella.
I text, Did you go off with that waiter?
No answer. Obviously, Mom and Dad made her put the phone away.
At ten o’clock, I text, Hey there. I need a weirdness update. How’d it go?
No answer.
10:15. Did you survive?
Still not getting her.
10:34. Ella, seriously. I’m worried. Give me a sign of life.
But nothing comes.
On Sunday, I call. There’s no answer.
Monday morning comes, and I race out of the house. When I see Ella standing on the corner, I feel bone-deep relief. Mom and Dad clearly flipped big-time and took her phone away for the weekend. That’s why she couldn’t text or call.
Normal survives, I remind myself. Normal is more powerful than you think.
I bounce up to her. “Hey, there!”
Ella says, “Hi” back. But her head is down, eyes away from mine. Her voice is quiet, withdrawn.
I prompt, “So?”
“Hm?”
“The dreaded dinner, how’d it go?”
“Oh.” A dark ripple of memory across her face and she starts walking.
I press. “Was it okay with Cassandra?”
“Uh, yeah. It was fine.”
“Well, good,” I say, for lack of anything else.
I want to ask, What happened with the phone? Did you get in trouble? But there’s something about Ella’s expression that tells me questions are not welcome.
I’m trying to think of a way to say, Ella, I can tell something happened, when she says abruptly, “Sorry, I’m just really not up for talking this morning.”
Then she reaches into her bag and pulls out some earphones. Putting one in each ear, she tunes me out for the rest of the walk. She doesn’t even take them out when we get to school, giving me a little wave good-bye as she heads up the steps.
It’s started, I think.
Later, I ask Ella if she wants to have lunch.
She hesitates. “I have a major exam coming up. I should use the time to study.”
“You can’t think on an empty stomach.”
“I brought my lunch.”
“Oh—cool.”
I try again the next day, but she says the same thing: she has to study. Half joking, I say, “Okay, where’s the real Ella? What have you done with her?”
“Maybe I’m trying to change a little bit,” she says, and walks away.
It’s important to stay close to Ella, and I can’t do that if we fight. So for the next few days, I act completely clueless that she’s … well, avoiding me. One afternoon, I ask if she wants to do coffee, she says no. Another day, I try lunch again. She says no.
At the end of the week, I catch Ella by the lockers. “This weekend, want to watch a movie and order Chinese food?”
Not even looking at me, she says, “My family’s got me super busy this weekend.”
Ella’s parents are often busy, but never with Ella.
I’m about to ask straight out what’s going on when she suddenly looks up. “Why do you always ask me to eat?”
“What?”
“Do you think that’s all I like to do?”
Startled, I say, “No, I just—”
Ella is actually glaring at me. I stammer, “I-it’s what I like to do. I’m sorry, we can totally do something else.”
She shakes her head. “Never mind.”
“Ella, tell me what’s going on, please.”
“Nothing.”
“Something happened at the dinner.…”
Her jaw tenses. A flicker of anger in her eyes. “Nothing new, believe me.”
“Or maybe you’re pissed at me. Tell me—what did I do?”
Frustrated, she slams the locker door. People around us jump.
“It’s nothing you’ve done,” she shouts, on the verge of tears. “It’s me, okay?” She turns, starts hurrying away. “It’s me!”
Helpless, I watch her go.
Then I hear behind me, “The tubby ones are always so temperamental. It’s the imbalance of bodily energies.”
I turn, see Cassandra. She’s standing by the windows, the sun behind her. She’s in darkness, but the immediate space around her is radiant, as if all her energy is shooting outward.
“What did you do to her, Cassandra? What did you say?”
“Nothing that wasn’t true,” she says innocently.
“This isn’t funny; there’s something not right with her.”
“And I believe that’s all that I said,” she says, and walks past me.
I watch and wait, hoping Ella will crack and tell me what’s going on. We say almost nothing on the walk to school now. Claiming she doesn’t feel well, she brings her music and plugs it into her ears. Meanwhile, I walk beside her, praying she can at least hear my friendly thoughts.
And then one day, I walk out to the corner and Ella isn’t there. No Scream bag. No bubble curls. No Ella.
I check my phone for a text. Sorry, running late! But there’s no message.
I wait five minutes. Ten minutes. Then I text, Hey there. Are you coming?
As I stand there, I gaze at the three other corners that make up Eighty-Ninth and West End. One is empty and quiet. At another, a mom takes hold of her little girl’s hand before they cross the street. A man checks his phone at a third.
I check my phone. No answer from Ella.
Maybe she’s sick, I think, reluctantly starting to walk. Maybe she was up all night hurling and she’s just too exhausted to get in touch. That happened to me once. It’s not impossible.
But it’s not what happened, and I know it.
All day, I keep checking my phone—even in class, which is an absolute no-no. In English, Mr. Rhinehart threatens to confiscate it if he sees it again. I like Mr. Rhinehart a lot. But I want to scream, My friend could be in serious trouble, okay? Steinbeck can wait.
A text from Nina about Peter Lilly picking his nose. One from my mom about dinner. Adam Zamora asking if we had to write three pages or five on the Federalist Papers. Nothing from Ella.
Then at the end of the day, I get a message from Cassandra. There are no words. Just a picture. It’s an image from Snow White, the old Disney movie.
Snow White in her glass coffin.