Paige sets the steaming kettle onto a pot holder on the coffee table. I don’t know why she bothers, since no one touches it or any of the Dream Puffs she put out for a snack. A cookie—no matter how strawberry- and cream-filled and delicious—is just not going to help after what I’ve had to reveal. But for as long as Paige has been my next-door neighbor, she’s been like this: trying to be helpful even when there’s nothing she can really do to make things better. I guess it’s a nice quality in a person. I mean, she didn’t leave me at the Hollywood sign like most people would have if they’d been dragged from their warm beds in the middle of the night, only to be ditched on a dark, deserted mountaintop.
Mom draws her knees up to her chest, which makes her look as fragile as a bird. “This is all so … wow. So, let me get this straight: we find out … we find out if you’re a witch in three days?”
I nod. Only my mom would skip over the whole “sneaking out and jaunting aimlessly around L.A. with a strange boy” bit to seriously zero in on the part where I tell her I might be a witch. “According to this Bishop guy, anyway. Who knows what to believe?”
“I believe it.” She stares into her lap without seeing. “I just … feel it.”
The grandfather clock in the dining room ticks away the seconds of silence.
“Sugar?” Paige poises a spoon over the sugar bowl.
Mom shakes her head. “Black is fine. Thank you, Paigey.” The corners of her lips twitch as she forces a smile and accepts the cup Paige proffers. She slurps a tiny sip, then sets the cup down on the table.
“So, Ind …” Mom still won’t look up as she picks invisible lint off the patchwork quilt covering her legs. “Did this Bishop say anything about why I didn’t know almost any of this? I mean, except that the Bible was important, this is all new to me.” Her voice hitches, and she laughs to cover it up.
My cheeks grow hot. All this time I’d been thinking about myself, and I never even stopped to think what this would mean to Mom. Her own mother was a witch, and somehow I was the one to recount her family history to her. She should have known. She should have been the one to tell me.
Her eyes glisten, and my heart is ripped from my chest. And there’s nothing, nothing I can do. I have no idea why she wasn’t told.
“No big deal.” Mom gives me a tiny smile. “Must be a witch-only kind of thing. At least she gave me the Bible. You know, trusted me to protect it. That means a lot.”
She breaks down, sobbing. I pull her into a hug, taking in her scent—a combination of Pantene Curly Hair Series, Chantilly perfume, cigarettes, and something else uniquely Mom. “I’m sure there’s a good reason, Mom. There has to be.”
Paige shifts on the love seat opposite us as Mom releases deep, shuddery sobs.
“You could be in danger,” Mom says between gulps for air. “And it’s all my fault.”
“What?” I draw back to get a good look at her face.
“The Bible,” she says. “It was my job to—”
“And you were unconscious,” I interrupt. “And those were superpowerful sorcerers. A human would be no match for them. You shouldn’t feel bad.”
She gives a minute shake of her head.
“Seriously,” I continue, “it’s the Family’s fault for not coming for the Bible sooner, after Grandma died, when you had no way to protect it.” I can’t believe that, in just hours, I’ve gone from a nonbeliever to casually name-dropping the Family in conversation.
“Does seem a little strange,” Mom mutters.
“Exactly.” I sling my arm back around her shoulders.
“I just …”
“What?” I ask.
She sighs. “Well, I just wish that I could coach you through all this. I don’t know anything about this type of stuff. Wicca and this, they’re completely different ball games. I mean, flying?” She lets out a hopeless laugh.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “Bishop said he’ll show me the ropes if I turn.”
At my lie, Paige shoots me a look, which I put down with a discreet throat-cutting gesture. Mom doesn’t need anything else to worry about right now. And anyway, the full moon’s three days away. Lots of time to plan something between now and then.
“Plus,” I add, “Bishop said there’s nothing to worry about. The ball’s out of our court. We just need to get back to normal life.”
“Normal life?” Mom repeats.
“Yep. Starting now. I’m going upstairs because the sun is coming up and going to bed at sunrise is so not normal.”
Mom seems to realize, for the first time, that dawn has filtered in through the half-drawn venetian blinds, illuminating the Mexican-knickknack-filled living room with soft pink light.
“I guess,” she says, and we all push to our feet.
Paige lets herself out, and Mom concedes to let me guide her upstairs.
Even though I’ve been up for more than twenty-four hours, I didn’t once feel tired. How could I? But now, with Mom safe and asleep in the next room, I fall into a coma as soon as my head hits the pillow.
When I wake up, I’m sure of at least two things. One is that the sun has already set. The other is that I’ve slept way, way too long, and now will suffer all night with a massive sleep headache. My phone beeps, reminding me of a third thing—that I’ve missed about forty calls. Half from Devon, and about as many from Paige. And that brings up a big, huge thing that I’m not sure of: what the hell happened last night.
There was something in there about witches and sorcerers and Devon screwing my best friend and people wanting to kill me. And Bishop. But none of that seems real now; it’s like some nightmare that will fade away once I’m fully awake.
I open my first text message. It’s from Devon: plz answer, u have to hear me out.
So I guess that part was real. My stomach clenches. I vaguely remember not caring about it all last night when I was with Bishop, but Bishop’s not here now. In fact, he never will be again, if I can believe anything he’s said. Tears blur my vision. As if on cue, my cell phone starts buzzing in my hand, and a picture of Devon—my favorite picture of him, sweaty and smiling in his football jersey after the game against Beverly Hills High—flashes onto the screen. My chest contracts painfully, and my thumb hovers over the keypad before I finally press Ignore.
There’s a knock on my door. Mom pokes her head inside without waiting for a response.
“Just wanted to let you know I put leftovers from the barbecue in the fridge,” she says.
Barbecue? Shit—the barbecue Paige invited me to. The one I promised I’d attend. I cross to my window and crack the blinds. It’s dark, the barbecue cover is on, and her backyard is conspicuously devoid of party guests. Shit, shit, shit.
So, Paige sticks by my side even after I’ve treated her like complete crap, conceding to be dragged along on one suicide mission after the next, and I can’t even bother to amble next door for a stupid sloppy joe? I suck. Big-time.
I want to climb back into my warm bed, hide under my duvet, and cry until the world becomes a less cruel place to live, or until high school graduation. Whichever comes first.
So that’s what I do.