Prologue

I didn’t choose to be a witch, no way.

Ever since I discovered my witchy destiny last fall, my life’s been pretty screwed up. I mean, it had been before, but not to this extent. First of all, I’m a guy. I should be a warlock or wizard, something cool like that. I’m even allergic to cats. How lame is that for a witch? But had I not been a witch, several people I care about wouldn’t have survived last fall. Even though not all of them made it out alive.

I’ll never forget last fall, much as I’d like to.

I hate autumn. When the leaves tumble, so does the temperature, ending the possibilities and hope that the lazy, hot summers in Clearwell promise. Gone are the days of sleeping in, swimming, hanging out, and laughing with friends. If you’re lucky enough to have them.

Those days get replaced with tyranny, captivity, bullying, cliques, ignorance, and just about the entire gamut of ugly humanity encapsulated within the halls of good ol’ Clearwell High School. And if the Fates or gods, or whatever it is you believe in, choose to torture me in such a situation, they’re equally cruel about the surrounding environment. The cold, brittle weather outside complements the sterile gray inhumanity within the classrooms, with a new winter storm looming practically every week. If I survive high school, I’m taking a cue from the birds and going where the warmth is. I’ll gladly be a Florida witch.

So, Clearwell, Kansas. I’ve heard all the Kansas jokes, including the tired ones about Dorothy and Toto. The few foreign exchange students I’ve met believed there were still cowboys roaming the plains of Kansas. Actually, Clearwell’s a suburb of Kansas City—about thirty minutes from downtown—and the only shoot-’em-ups we experience are between warring urban gangs.

Yes, the weather sucks in the fall and winter here, but the neighborhood Dad and I live in isn’t too bad. The houses are old enough to look different from one another, unlike the suburbs further south, which my friend Olivia calls “stupid yuppieville.” Fortunately, they’re far enough apart I don’t have to go to sleep listening to whatever Mr. Cavanaugh next door does late at night.

The neighborhood’s overseen by what I used to call “The Tree Watchers.” Giant trees—maples, oaks, everything—are littered throughout the yards. As a kid, I saw them as vigilant protectors, watching over me as I slept, keeping me safe from what lurked in the dark, barely outside of the swaying tree limbs’ reach. Even though it sucks when it’s time to rake up their shed skins each year, it used to comfort me, knowing they stood as a final barrier against the scarier things in the world. I sure could have used them last fall.

The house Dad and I live in rests in the middle of Oak Street, a nice, average neighborhood. It’s mostly quiet because of all the old people living there. It’s been this way for as long as I can remember. But last year, the old folks started dying off. I remember looking out my upstairs bedroom window late one winter night and seeing flashing lights next door at Mrs. Hathaway’s house. I watched, terrified, yet fascinated, as they took Mrs. Hathaway out on a stretcher. A mask and tubing grew out of her face, giving her the appearance of a cyborg going back to the factory for maintenance. The next morning, Dad told me Mrs. Hathaway had ‘passed away.’ I became very familiar with the term “passed away” during the next couple of years.

So, there came an eventual “greening” of the neighborhood. A changing of the guard brought in younger people. Though there were no other teenagers, I quit feeling like I was living in an old folks’ home. Mr. Cavanaugh moved in next door, taking over the left-behind shell Mrs. Hathaway inhabited. There wasn’t much known about Mr. Cavanaugh, other than he was single and sat on his porch most nice evenings, watching. I never understood what he was watching, but that’s what he did. Dad didn’t say too much about him. He only grumbled that he thought Mr. Cavanaugh was in sales, and I should “keep my distance.”

One rainy day, shortly after Mr. Cavanaugh moved in, I had a weird encounter with him. Outside, killing time, I tried to catch raindrops in my mouth from the tree branches. (You have to make your own fun in Clearwell.) Completing this pointless exercise in random boredom, I ran up to my room, throwing myself across my bed. The doorbell rang, and I heard Dad answer it. Curious, I listened from the stairwell leading down to the front door. Mr. Cavanaugh complained I’d been making faces at his cat, Benny, trying to scare it. Mr. C. rambled on, demanding retribution for my wanton acts of feline terrorism. Having lived a life full of blame for things I didn’t do, I wasn’t surprised, but thought, “Wow, this is stupid.” I can think of lots of endeavors more worthwhile than making faces at a cat. And honestly, would a cat even care?

Dad shut the door with a slam, uttering “Jeezus” not quite under his breath. I came down the stairs, yawning and stretching my arms (intimating, “Who me? I wasn’t eavesdropping!”), and asked who’d been at the door.

“Ah, just the neighbor, son,” he said. “Go back to your homework, and I’ll get dinner ready soon.” I loved my dad, and if we weren’t such a non-touching, non-feeling family, I would’ve hugged him right there. Adults usually didn’t stand up for me.

My dad’s in a wheelchair. He wasn’t always. I barely remember his walking, but I do. My youngest memories are when he’d come home from his banking job, toss a couple of bank datebooks at me because he knew I liked to draw my own comic books in them, and swing me up on his shoulders. He was six feet four inches tall, so my mom always freaked out he’d bang my head on the ceiling. “Here we go, Tex,” Dad would yell.

I don’t remember it, but the story goes one day my perfectly healthy dad walked into the backyard to get some logs for the fireplace, and he went down. Simple as that, no drama, no fuss, just phut! He collapsed and was confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life. The doctors studied, poked, prodded, brought in specialists, and finally, one specialist diagnosed him with MS. (I used to think this stood for “mystery sickness” since apparently, no one knew anything about it.) The specialist called this “not an extreme example of multiple sclerosis.” I’d hate to see the extreme cases. But Dad could actually walk a few steps and even drive a little if an emergency should call for it.

This explains why I, Richard “Tex” McKenna, a sophomore at Clearwell High School, have my driver’s permit at age fifteen. Due to Dad’s “circumstances” (as the doctors and drivers bureau called them), I got a permit and a total crap-heap of a car, so I could take Dad to work and drive to school. Best of all, it saved me from the hell known as the school bus.

My mother’s death last year also played into my ability to drive early. Small favors. But I don’t like talking about that.

Anyway, let me take you back to that fateful fall.