Chapter Four

In the kitchen, dinner preparations were being wrapped up. Since Mom died, we’d graduated to more advanced meals. Tonight’s menu offered chicken breasts stuffed with crabmeat. It’s too bad Mom couldn’t see how far we’d progressed.

“Son, have you heard anything else about the Rimmer boy’s death?” Dad pounded out the chicken breasts with a plastic-wrapped can of pumpkin pie filling.

“No, not really. Just a lot of wild rumors and the usual gossip. Nothing specific.” I chopped the crabmeat into small bits as we avoided all things “Mom,” an unspoken understanding between us the eminent chat would happen after dinner. Right now, “family time” reigned.

“Bill Pearson said the boy was beaten brutally with a pipe and then strangled.” Dad shook his head in disbelief. “Who would do such a thing?”

Even though I could think of at least two likely candidates for such savagery at school, I decided I wouldn’t worry my dad unnecessarily with this information. “Beats me.”

“Did he have a lot of enemies?”

“No, he was well-liked. But I barely knew him.” I sensed the best course to give Dad some peace of mind was distancing myself from the sitch.

“Just watch yourself.” Dad stopped flattening the chicken to catch my eye. “Be careful.”

Dinner was good, although neither one of us had much of an appetite. We pushed the food around on our plates, talked about the weather and other waste-of-time topics, dreading the inevitable. After we ate, silence hung heavily in the small kitchen, the clock ticking away anxiously on the wall above us.

I washed the dishes, and Dad dried them. We sat back down at the dinner table, where we always had our talks. The same table where I found Mom crying, a different lifetime ago.

“Dad…” There was no turning back now. “What exactly was Mom involved in?”

He looked sharply at me. “What do you know?” We danced nervously around each other, both of us afraid to take the lead.

“Today, I found some weird stuff in her office. I found a ton of strange candles, a homemade box with some of my stuff in it—”

“Son…” he interrupted. “Son, your mother was a practicing witch.”

There. He’d said it. I sat dumbfounded, not knowing how to respond. It didn’t come as a total surprise, as the clues were all there. But it did seem unworldly having heard it out loud, hanging in the tick-tocking kitchen like a thrown dagger.

“Okay,” I finally said. “What does that mean?”

“She comes from a long line of witches. Her mother was one, and her grandmother was one. Apparently, it’s hereditary. I understand your mother was…very talented and powerful.”

“Grandma was a witch…” I thought about the frail little, facial-haired lady I used to kiss on holidays. Imagining her stirring a cauldron brought a smile to my face.

To my amazement, Dad smiled, too. “Yes, that’s what I was told.” He folded and unfolded his hands, his “bank-side” manner.

“So, the candles I found? Did she use these for…spells?” Not only did this topic seem surreal, but it astounded me at how matter-of-factly I coped with this bombshell information.

“Yes, she did. But I need you to understand something. Your mother was very careful to practice only white magic. And she was careful to not use it for selfish purposes. Otherwise, she once told me, things could go bad very fast.”

“What kind of spells? What ‘white magic’ did she do?” The air seemed almost hazy—the kind of atmosphere you experience as a kid on Christmas morning with the magical glow of Santa’s trail still lingering in the air.

“I saw her do a lot of good things over the years.” Dad shut his eyes as if in pained concentration. “Do you remember when your cousin Billy nearly died? When he had pneumonia so bad, the doctors didn’t think he’d live another day?”

“Yes…” I didn’t really remember, being three at the time. But I’d heard enough about it when we gathered at my cousins’ house for Thanksgiving dinner.

“She saved his life with one of her spells. Either that or he miraculously recovered on his own, but…” He spread his hands as if that explained it all. “She was also the one who called the police anonymously five years ago about the missing Barton boy. She’d found out where he was with a…with scrying—you know, divination of a sort—your mom called it.”

I did remember the Barton kid going missing. He’d fallen into a storm drain, and thanks to a call to the police, they found him safe, scared, and hungry.

“She did many things,” Dad continued. “Most of what she did wasn’t on the scale of saving lives, but she did little things to help people out as often as possible. She knew I was…uncomfortable…and even a little skeptical about all this…witchcraft…so she kept it from me as much as she could. But I did become a believer. I just didn’t understand most of it, so your mom decided what I didn’t know wouldn’t hurt me.” Dad’s voice cracked ever-so-slightly before quickly recovering. “I didn’t know this about your mom for the longest time. Years after we were married, she told me about it. Like we’re doing now…it happened at this very table.”

“But…we went to church every Sunday. How could Mom have been a witch…if she was religious?” Every Sunday, the three of us would trudge down to the Hall Avenue Baptist Church and get an hour-load of Godliness shoved at us. Then, life resumed as usual. Dad and I stopped going to church once Mom died, her funeral the last time either one of us set foot in a church.

“No…no, no!” He laughed and shook his head. “Look, Tex, I don’t understand witchcraft at all, nor the extent of what your mother was practicing, but I guess it’s possible to believe in and worship God, while still being a witch. In fact, I think she incorporated God into her practice.” This was getting nuttier by the minute. Everything I thought I knew about my mother was apparently only half-true. And my limited understanding of witchcraft (from movies, mostly) hardly seemed like gospel either.

“Oh boy.” I hung my head, my hair grazing the table. “So, Mom was a witch who helped people by using ‘good witchcraft’ and…” I stopped, trying to mentally order all the questions I had. “If this were true, why didn’t she cure your MS? Why didn’t she protect herself from dying?” This last question unleashed some surprising rage at my parents—for lying to me, for getting sick, for dying. Especially if it could have been prevented. I pounded the table with my fist, rattling the fruit bowl at the center.

“I don’t know for sure, Tex. But I suspect your mother had a lot to do with my MS not being as severe as it could’ve been. She was extremely cautious about using her powers for selfish reasons, as I told you, but I do think she put a protection spell on me after I was first diagnosed. I know she put a protection spell on you.”

“Was the spell…a small handkerchief filled with herbs and stuff?” Too bad I’d thrown it out, but by now I was so pissed off I didn’t care about being “unprotected.”

“Yep, that much I do know,” said Dad, happily able to supply something concrete. “As for her own protection and health, well…we both know she was a pretty selfless person. And, I guess she was afraid of invoking…black magic.”

“Dad, I don’t get any of this. This changes everything!”

“Hey, nothing’s changed. Your mother’s still the same person we always knew and loved. If anything’s changed…it’s just the fact she protected you more than you knew. She wanted me to tell you about this when she was first diagnosed with cancer…in case she died.”

“Why? What good does it do to know this now? Maybe I’m better off not even knowing about this…craziness!” Crazy didn’t begin to describe it. It almost felt like my mom’s memory had been sullied.

“Well…” Dad sighed, shutting his eyes again. “There is something important you need to know, Tex. I said being a witch is hereditary…that makes you the next witch in line.” He scratched at the table, rubbing out an invisible smear. “You’re a witch, too.”

I stared at him in disbelief. Then I laughed, long and loud. What else do you do when you’re told you’re a witch? My life was confusing, hectic, and scary enough without this bird-dropping of mind-blowing crap being unloaded onto my shoulder. Bullied high school murder suspect by morning, witch by night. That’s me. Yay.

“This is…unbelievable.” I ranted to the dead-bug-filled light fixture above me, in my best teenage dramatic diva performance. “Now what am I supposed to do, Dad?”

“I know this is hard to take…” He rolled his wheelchair across to my side of the table. He laid one hand on my shoulder.

“‘Hard to take…’”

“Here…” He unfolded a piece of paper from his shirt pocket. “Your mom wanted you to contact this person. She’ll be able to help you and answer more questions than I can.”

I looked at the name and address on the paper. Mickey Goldfarb.

“Dad,” I said, regaining myself somewhat, “okay…but, why do you want me to go see your bookie?”

He stared at me blankly before we shared a much-needed, tension-breaking laugh.

“Just go see her. I’ve never met her, but your mom talked about her on occasion. They…worked together, and I guess she helped your mom learn some things.”

Worked together. On what? Boiling cauldrons? Ancient curses? “Fine, I’ll go see her,” I said resignedly. “Whatever. But I can’t after school tomorrow because Olivia’s got a detention, and I have to wait to give her a ride home.”

“Oh?” Dad lifted his eyebrows. I believe he saw this as an escape route from the current uncomfortable topic of witchery. “Your girlfriend?” He grinned, hoping one uncomfortable topic would supersede the other.

“No, Dad, she’s not my girlfriend.” We’d been through this many times, and I know Dad wishes she were my girlfriend. Sometimes I suspected Dad thought I might be gay. Bad enough his son is a witch and all that…

“Okay, but don’t wait too long to see Mickey. I think she’ll be able to, if nothing else, make sense of this…mess…” Dad’s voice trailed off quietly as if he were sorry I’d been dragged into this. “Goodnight, son…”

I watched him roll away from the table and felt a sudden sense of compassion for him. While I cried like a little kid about my small(ish) problems, here lived a man whose wife and health were plucked cruelly and prematurely from him. He never whined or dramatically thrust his hands toward the uncaring gods screaming, Why me? At least that I ever saw or heard. He coped with quiet dignity.

“Dad?” I walked up behind him and placed my hand on his shoulder. He covered mine with his stronger hand.

“Yes, son?” He looked up at me.

“I really miss her…I miss Mom.” Here came the tears again. The eighth wonder of the world today, my inexhaustible supply of tears just wouldn’t stop. Step right up and see the incredible tear-flowing Tex, the witch boy!

“I know, son. I miss her, too.” Silence ruled, proximity to one another comfort enough.

“But you know…” Dad hesitated as if he didn’t want to finish. “Just because your mother’s passed away…doesn’t mean you can’t still contact her.”

I thought about this while Dad went off to bed.

****

The next day, Ian and I listened to Red talk about fixing his old Impala (stored above us in the school garage, which doubled as half-maintenance area and half auto-mechanics class), and how he’d take us “cruising for chicks” when he finished the job. Neither Ian nor I particularly cared anything about cars, but the appeal of “cruising for chicks”—particularly those outside the realm of Clearwell High School—did hold a mysterious allure of pleasures beyond our limited lifestyle and knowledge.

Josh ran down the stairs, dropped his skateboard onto the cement floor, and wheeled it over in a casual show of mini-wheeled expertise. He kick-flipped it up into his hands, practically completely covered beneath his oversized, brown turtleneck.

“Hey.” He jerked his chin at us.

“Hey” became our standard greeting after Olivia put a ban on our using the fist bump. She’d said, Leave that fist-bump to the Neanderthals.

Red only had three folding chairs in the boiler room, and Josh usually lost out as he had farther to travel from class. He sat down on the floor next to us.

“What’s up, Josh?” asked Red, flipping his curly hair out of his eyes.

“Not much…” Josh unwrapped his peanut butter and jelly sandwich, the only thing he appeared to eat.

I considered Josh to be a world-class skateboarder. Josh’s skating prowess even impressed Red, golden boy supreme of the basketball courts. If everyone has a special talent—Ian’s would be video games, Olivia’s tart and sharp tongue. I suppose mine is, I don’t know, witchery. Josh definitely ruled as King of the Skate Park. No one could turn a board inside out like him. A mini-legend at the Summit Skate Park, he presided royally with his never-ending repertoire of Ollies, kick-flips, shoves, and pushes. If the bullies who maliciously called him “Mole” could see him in his natural habitat, I had no doubt he wouldn’t be cursed with his undeserved anonymity.

The summer when I got to know Josh after the shower incident was a fun one. He taught me, Olivia, and Ian to skateboard, at least to the best of our limited, two-left-feet abilities. Ian picked it up better than Olivia and I had, but even he cast a pale shadow of the skateboarding accomplishments of Josh. But the learning process provided our otherwise dull summer with hours and days of entertainment. As our circle of friendship grew stronger, our bumps and bruises grew larger and bluer.

I even saw Josh outrun Bellman and Malinowski on his skateboard once. If Josh wasn’t at the skate park, then he could be found skating around the sidewalks at school. One day while getting into the Bucket, I spotted Josh racing and flipping off the front sidewalks when Bellman and Malinowski crossed his path. Of course, ugly words and threats spewed from their mouths while Bellman stabbed his hotdog of a finger at Josh. As I prepared to dash the Bucket up there to give Josh a getaway ride, he calmly held his own. While he didn’t say anything to the bullies, he grinned and circled around them as a cat would casually tease a barking dog. Suddenly they gave chase, and Josh high-tailed it, fast as a bottle rocket, leaving the chain-smoking football bullies doubled-over and breathing hard on the sidewalk. Bellman, after all, had already developed a beer-gut at the age of sixteen.

The next day, I asked Josh about the incident. He just smiled, a Rock God Skate Boarder, and he knew it. Too bad no one else took the time to discover this about him.

During that last, fun summer, Ian and I were invited to Josh’s house for dinner, an eye-opening experience. We sat down at the table alongside Josh’s parents and his two older twin brothers, Bernie and Bobby, home from college for the summer. Practically indistinguishable, Bernie and Bobby were two large, muscular behemoths of boys. Giants compared to Josh, they amiably punched and teased one another. The Berillos appeared not too financially stable (later verified by my dad), accounting for Josh’s ill-fitting wardrobe. I just wish they had better tastes than all the colors of the earth turtlenecks.

At dinner, Josh’s dad—a permanently scowling and seemingly verbally challenged man—murmured a prayer then yelled, “Let’s eat!” The twins noisily chased after meatballs with forks and fat fingers, while their dad struggled to suck up a tremendously long piece of pasta. He craned his head around the table impatiently, as if he couldn’t believe his misfortune to be punished by the world’s most stubborn pasta. Then he shook his head from side to side, like a dog with his favorite squeak-toy, spraying sauce over the table. He stopped and stared at everyone in turn, expectantly. Expecting what, I couldn’t be sure, but it felt extremely uncomfortable. Finally, the twins belly-laughed like hyenas, and Josh and his father joined them.

Josh’s mother attempted to hide her smile and said sheepishly, “Honestly, Bob,” but soon joined them in their giddiness. Ian and I exchanged stunned glances of disbelief but also relief because we understood it was okay—and expected—to laugh. I experienced something long forgotten—the enjoyment of a family sharing something. Sure, it might have been considered sorta’ civil savagery, but while watching Josh’s family hooting and flipping sauce at one another, I immediately felt at ease. Also, a melancholic sense of what I’d lost hit me hard. After that, I went to Josh’s house for dinner at every opportunity.

After dinner, the twins pulled me aside and quietly thanked me—in a manner much different from their tableside behavior—for helping Josh at school. I told them I hadn’t done anything. Refusing to believe this, they went on about how Josh said I’d practically saved his life. They also promised a form of protection if we were ever bullied again. Even though it was comforting to know we had backup if necessary, I thought it rather futile. When school started up again, they’d be back at college. This time I thanked them, pointless as it may’ve been, but it reassured me that not every large lunk-head reeked of evil.

****

I finished my tuna sandwich and tossed the wrapper at Red’s wire trashcan.

“Oooooh, missed,” yelled Red. “From where you were, Tex, that should’ve been an easy two-pointer.”

We all took turns trying to hit the basket with the rest of our trash. “Damn, boys, am I gonna have to teach you a thing or two out on the courts?” asked Red.

The prospect of extra-curricular sports didn’t sound too appealing, so I quickly changed the subject. “I guess Olivia’s one and only trip down here did her in, huh?”

“Yeah,” said Ian, grinning. “She calls it the ‘Dork Dungeon of Depravity’ and swore she’d never set foot here again.”

“She was a pretty hot little thing,” said Red. “I’m telling you, one of you guys better bust a move soon…before it’s too late.” He creased his brow, visually daring us to accept his challenge.

Once again, “redirection” proved to be my most efficient weapon. “Hey, have any of you seen a dirty white ice cream van around here lately? One with nothing but an old bell on top?”

“Somebody’s got the munchies,” said Ian, laughing harder than merited. “Do you need a push-up, maybe with little itty-bitty sprinkles on top?”

“Actually,” said Red, “I think I have seen it…” Lost in thought, he stroked his hair with his long, thin fingers. “I think it’s been cruising around here after school. But it was weird ’cause I never saw it stop once…and it didn’t ring the bell much.”

“That’s the one.” I didn’t let them know how suddenly fearful this made me. “Huh…weird…” I said casually, to blow off any more talk of mysterious ice cream men. But part of me thought…could this ice cream guy be Matt Rimmer’s killer?

I also debated if I should share what I knew about my mom—and myself—with my friends. On one hand, I understand the feeling of betrayal when loved ones keep something important—something you have a right to know, something you’ve earned the right to know—from you. On the other hand, it sounds way too crazy to even believe. Then again, I knew my friends would act as my support group, and maybe—just like that summer of skating, bruises and camaraderie—we could learn together. And yet, something told me, I didn’t have enough information to share with them yet. And something even deeper, from a dark place, told me if they knew, they’d possibly find themselves in the path of danger.

****

Mostly surrounded by freshmen waiting for a working parent to pick them up, I hung out in the cafeteria and finished my homework. The school policy stated that at three forty-five, students had to vacate the premises and wait outside or be invited into a supervised classroom. So when the cafeteria clock turned three forty-five, I gathered my books and backpack, realizing I had another fifteen minutes before Olivia would be released from the pointless exercise known as detention.

I’d only had a couple detentions myself, one for “loitering” in the halls after school, a paradox because you’d think the faculty would appreciate students desiring to stay longer in their Halls of Education. For over an hour, I wrote my name continuously on notebook paper until my hand cramped, and time stood at a standstill. I wondered who created this sadistic form of torture when the time could have been better spent furthering my education by doing—oh, I don’t know—homework, or something.

Olivia and Ian were unintentionally vying to see who could rack up the most detentions. One detention provided all I needed to know to opt out of their competition. Ian’s seemingly random acts of aggression always brought about his detentions, while Olivia channeled her talents into “fighting the man” and railing against what she saw as acts of injustice. I’m not sure how calling Miss Swanson an “uptight beeyotch” fit into her one-woman crusade (true as it may be) against unfairness, but it gave Olivia the lead in the contest.

I went to the maintenance garage to see if Red could be found working on his car, or whatever he did all day to earn his paycheck, but it was vacant. Then I poked my head down the stairs to look for him in the boiler room. Still no sign of him.

I sighed, resigning myself to the fact I’d have to risk another detention by loitering outside Miss Swanson’s classroom, waiting for Olivia to finish the written manifesto of her name. Those capital “O’s” would probably be hell on her hand.

Miss Swanson plastered her door window with a handwritten sign reading “Swanson–Speech,” so I couldn’t wave at Olivia to light a fire under her. Feeling the burden of my backpack, I slid down alongside the slick, gray lockers, landing with a plop onto the checkered linoleum floor.

As soon as the door swung open, I hopped up, ready to get the hell out of there. Instead, I stared into the frightening visage of Bob Bellman. A lop-sided grin stretched across his face once he remembered he hated me.

“Hey, pussy,” he spat. “Narc.” He said this as quietly as if in a library, but then I realized how stupid that comparison sounded. Bellman’s never been in a library, probably didn’t even know what one is.

“Well, which is it?” I asked, wishing my inner censor had kicked in before my words came out. “Am I a feline? Or a narcotics officer?” Too late.

Bellman’s smile grew wider while he tried to grasp if I’d ridiculed him or not. “You’re dead is what you are.” He came at me, invading my personal space. His noxious, nicotine-tinged breath rolled off him, potent in its pungency. His unibrow formed a horizontal exclamation point above his crazy-eyed statement. Two inches separated my distance from the face of evil.

“Tex…I remember how you tried to get me expelled. You’re so dead.” He shoved me backward as I fell with a metallic clang against a locker. With one arm braced against my chest, he pinned me against the wall.

“Look, I did not try to get you expelled…I didn’t do anything to you.” His other arm stretched above my head, hand flat against the locker, like he wanted to offer me the kiss of death. I squirmed, attempting to slip off my backpack, hoping it would be a valid weapon to knock him back if necessary.

“What kind of pussy name is ‘Tex’?” He pushed the words through his grime-covered teeth as if it pained him. “There’s only two things from Texas with horns, and that’s steers and queers.”

Idiotically, I obliged him. “You didn’t even get the movie quote right.” My stupid mouth and brain weren’t communicating with one another. “What you said doesn’t even make sense.”

“Make sense of this!” He blind-sided me with a fist to the side of the head. Half-stunned, I dropped, my vision giving way to sharp slivers of light. By the time I could see clearly again, he’d wrapped the straps of my backpack around my neck and pulled it tight. As he pulled the nylon straps tighter, my breath cut off.

“Let’s see you do some smart-ass talking now!” He dragged me down the long hallway by the constricting straps, chuckling. My fingers attempted to loosen the straps around my neck. I flailed wildly for anything to stop our progress. With nothing to grab but dust from the slick floor, my vision fled again. I heard myself choking as if from far away, a horrible gasping sound.

My God, he’s going to kill me!

I panicked, scrabbling as hard as I could. He dragged me toward the stairwell where some of the more barbaric forms of torture take place. The bullies preferred this venue because between classes they sat empty, and sound didn’t travel down the hallways. One of my last fully coherent thoughts had been the story of how Bellman and Malinowski had set John Scranton’s hair on fire last year in this very same stairwell.

About to surrender to unconsciousness, I heard a door open from a distance. A voice trumpeted, “Hey!” I barely made out the pitter-patter of running feet before it grew louder. Suddenly, like a banshee, Olivia yelled, “Take your paws off him, you damn, stinking ape!” I deliriously remembered we had watched The Planet of the Apes recently.

Bellman let out an agonized, inhuman scream. The straps around my neck loosened. Bellman writhed, twisted, and tossed one of his bloated hands toward his back.

“What did you do to me, you slut?”

Able to get up on my hands and knees, I gasped for breath. I looked up just in time to see Olivia grab the fire extinguisher from the sunken-in shelf on the wall. She flipped it upside down, a punked-out firefighter, and released a long, white foamy blast onto Bellman, giving him the appearance of a bakery explosion victim. As a loving, parting gesture, Olivia picked up the extinguisher and brought it down upon Bellman’s snow-white head. The audible thud sounded sickening as Bellman went down, still raging and cursing us.

Olivia grabbed my shoulder, gave it a quick pinch, and said, “Come on, Tex, we gotta go!” I got up, shook my head to wake from the nightmare. We ran to the safety of the stairwell, my earlier, imminent port of departure. As an afterthought, Olivia spied the fire alarm and pulled it. Maybe not necessary, but typically Olivia.

We bounded down the stairwell, the persistent ring of the fire alarm chasing us. But even over the calamitous ringing, I could hear Bellman bellowing in animal-like rage, “Kill you! I’ll kill you! Pussyfaggotbitchslut! I’m gonna kill you!”

Olivia threw open the door to the field where the marching band practiced. We had to hightail it to the nearest street, go around the fence, and carefully take the long way back to the school parking lot. Olivia quickly surveyed the now-empty field like a well-trained spy and said, “Let’s go!” I think part of her enjoyed this, nearly giddy because she thought our team “won one.” But I knew there’d be “overtime.” I just hoped it wouldn’t be “sudden death.”

****

Miraculously, our covert effort to return to the school parking lot, unseen by faculty and Bellman alike, proved successful. We crawled into the Battle Bucket and slowly and quietly—as quietly as the Bucket stubbornly agreed to—drove away without uttering a word. I practically held my breath until we were two blocks away, fearful the slightest audible syllable would bring the rats running.

“Are you all right?” Olivia asked, breaking the silence. She looked concerned. And flushed with excitement. “I tried to text you that Bellman was in detention, too, but Swanson busted me. I almost got another detention! So…are you okay?”

“I don’t know.” My hands trembled on the steering wheel, my voice unsteady. “I think so. That sick bastard…he tried to kill me.”

“Well, I got him pretty good for you.”

“I saw your whole kung fu ninja extinguisher act.” I mustered a weak smile. “But, what did you do to make him let me go?”

“When I saw him dragging you down the hall, I grabbed the largest pin off my purse—the Sex Pistols—pulled out the needle and jammed it into his back!” Olivia’s eyes lit up with passion and fire. “See? Here it is.” She proudly held up her victory weapon. Dried blood stained the needle.

One step away from traumatic crying, I chose laughter instead. “Olivia…you’re a warrior.” I was truly in awe of her. Not only did she single-handedly take down the largest, scariest bully known to Clearwell High (and I bet a first for him), she also retained her weapon.

“You’re damn right I am!” She flexed a muscle.

“You know we’re in for one helluva storm of trouble, right?” I hated to sour her well-deserved mood, but I wanted her to be aware of the inevitable consequences.

“I already showed you I can handle Bellman.”

“I know you can, O’. I mean, you’re damn quick on your feet with a virtual arsenal at your fingertips—the pin, the fire extinguisher, the alarm. But, really…was the alarm necessary?”

“Yep!” We burst out laughing, releasing the pent-up emotions brought on by sudden danger.

“God, you’re so brave.” I felt a little ashamed. Inadequate and weak. “All I could do was come up with some snappy comebacks…and they weren’t even that good.” In my eyes, I let Olivia down, worried she wouldn’t respect me. I had no idea I suffered from the prototypical fragile male ego.

“Tex…no.” She abruptly turned serious. “You’re the brave one. You are.” At that moment, she did something she rarely did. She pulled the hair back from her covered eye, tucking it behind her ear. “Pull over, Tex.” She gripped the steering wheel and tugged it toward a parking lot we were passing.

“Okay.” I pulled into the lot.

“Look at me, Tex. Look at me. You’re the brave one. Out of all of us, you’re the bravest. I don’t know how you put up with everything…with your mom dying…your dad in a wheelchair…the bullying…but you do. And you keep going. That’s why we look up to you. You keep us together.”

“Thanks, O’.” I’ve never thought of myself as brave before. I run from every potential fight. Smart, maybe, but brave? I never realized my friends thought of me this way. “Thanks for trying to make me feel better.”

“It’s true, idiot! Have you ever known me to lie to make anyone feel better? Duh!”

I snorted, and Olivia howled with glee. The unrestrained natural abilities of Hurricane Olivia worked their miraculous talents on me once again.

“Okay, whatever,” I said. “But we need to talk about our plan. And we need a plan.”

“Check.” She nodded half-seriously.

“Regarding the faculty and the um…fun with fire equipment…” Olivia tried, but couldn’t hide her anarchic smile. “We deny everything. We saw nothing. We did nothing. If any teacher, or Hastings, asks you—and you will probably get your day in the hot seat—tell them you left detention five minutes earlier than you did and met me in the parking lot. Miss Swanson probably won’t remember a difference of five minutes.”

“Got it.” Totally enjoying the whole cloak-and-dagger thing, she had no clue of the danger she’d put herself into. She’d now become a blip on the radar—Bellman’s hateful, vengeance-fueled radar. And the thought of what Bellman might do to her made my skin crawl.

“They’ll probably ask if Bellman left before you did. Tell ’em you really don’t know. You just wanted to get the hell out of there and go do your homework like a good, little student.”

“Okay.” She snorted, homework a relatively alien concept to her. “But what about Bellman? Surely he’ll rat us out.”

“I doubt it. Do you really think he wants the school to find out he was beaten up by a girl?”

“Hoo-yah!” Olivia roared, once again channeling her inner warrior. “Okay, but what’s to stop him from pointing you out?”

“He won’t do that.”

“Why not? He sucks!”

“Because…he’ll want to get revenge on me Bellman-style. Having me suspended or expelled won’t be enough for him.” As I methodically worked this out, I wondered if divining the future could be part of my newly-discovered witch powers.

****

Once we reached Olivia’s driveway, I realized I only had a little while to pick Dad up from work. Time does fly when you’re having fun. We sat in the driveway for a few more minutes synching up our stories.

“It’s okay to tell Ian and Josh about what happened, I guess, but nobody else,” I said.

“Like I want to talk to anybody else at that dump.” Olivia glared at me like she couldn’t believe I’d even question her discretion.

“And, O’, be careful. Text me whenever you can.”

“Always.” She reached across the seat and hugged me. I walked around, let her out the passenger door, and saw her safely inside.

It dawned on me life had recently grown more complicated, and real danger was in my future. But even after my near-brush with death, my recently revealed heritage, and a murderer running loose, Olivia loomed largest in my mind. She’s magnificent, funny, smart, courageous, a great friend, and yes, hot. What this meant to me, and what I planned to do about it, scared me, possibly more than the events of the past weeks.