2

Remedies, Rituals, and Incantations.

I sat on the edge of my bed, running my index finger across the faded black print on the mossy green cover. There was no accompanying photo. No illustration. Not even a symbol. Nothing that might divulge any clue as to the book’s contents. I flipped through the fifty-some miniature pages before returning to examine the cover again. I tilted the book slightly, catching the light. Shimmering in the deep, mossy green was a leafy pattern. My eyes wandered from the title to the author’s name emblazoned across the bottom in fancy black script:

The White Witch

I’d seen loads of little books like this at the check-out in the past: Cheeses and Chutneys, The Best of Bananas, Lose Inches from Your Ankles. They were all the same — perfectly designed to attract impulsive shoppers with zero willpower. Was it worth the five bucks I slipped into Mom’s wallet? Maybe. Then again, maybe not.

Cyrus, who had been lying on the floor at the end of my bed, raised his head, pointed his wrinkled, prune-like nose at me, and snorted.

I frowned. “Quit judging me, Cyrus.” He snorted again (Cyrus always wants the last word), and laid his head back on his front paws to let me know he’d said his piece. I tossed the book aside and flopped backward, plunging into the feathery softness of my duvet. “You’re right. I admit it. I’ve sunk to an all-time low.”

“Lights out, Claire!” called my mother from the hallway.

“Five minutes!” I hollered back, in the most sincere voice I could manage.

“Make sure you get tons of beauty sleep — you need it! Eehah, eehah, eehah …”

“Jordan! Leave your sister alone …” My mother’s voice faded into something more threatening, but I couldn’t have cared less. Jordan could bungee-jump over cactuses using spaghetti as far as I was concerned.

New conviction coursed through my veins. I snatched the book from beside me, skipped past all the boring stuff — the foreword, the table of contents, the chapter introductions — and found the exact page I’d seen staring up at me in the grocery store. I read it out loud.

Acne Remedy

1 cup natural yogurt

3 tbsp. oatmeal

100 g Limburger cheese

6 cloves crushed garlic

In a small wooden bowl, using fingertips, mix all ingredients into a paste. Stand in front of a mirror and apply to face while chanting three times:

I feel the magic deep within me,

By the power and energy of three times three.

Blisters, boils, bubbles be gone,

Cleanse my pores, cleanse ’til dawn!

Let paste dry on face overnight. Wash thoroughly in the morning.

Underneath it was a remedy for diarrhea and on the next page, a really complex cure for ingrown toenails. But I spent little time examining those before returning my gaze to what I hoped was the magic miracle that would exile my evil pimple and clear the battleground to avoid any future uprisings.

I did a brief mental check. I was pretty sure we had all the ingredients — except maybe the Limburger. Dad was sort of a cheese-a-holic though, so if not Limburger, I figured he’d have a good substitute. But how to go about preparing my potion unnoticed? I decided it best to wait until everyone was asleep before raiding the refrigerator.

My parents were fairly predictable people. Mom usually went to bed sometime between ten and ten-thirty. She’d read a few pages of a big, fat romance novel with some muscular guy with long wavy hair on the cover until she’d drift off. Dad stayed up later to watch all his legal shows (he liked to think of himself as an investigator, district attorney, and forensic psychologist all rolled into one). At least once he headed up to bed he’d be out in a matter of minutes. Jordan, as usual, would be my biggest obstacle.

Jordan got to watch TV with dad. At eleven, he had to go to his room, but he always stayed up way past then playing games on his laptop or phone. I know because I’d heard him brag about it a zillion times to all his buddies. Yes, Jordan would be a problem. I’d have to make sure he was asleep before I began skulking around the house. If he caught me, he’d rat me out for sure — Jordan’s middle name is Rat. El Doofus Rat Murphy. I’m thinking of buying him monogrammed towels for his birthday.

So there I lay, impatiently watching the glowing digital numbers on my clock change and change again. I must have nodded off at some point, because next thing I knew, it was midnight — the Witching Hour. How fitting.

I poked a toe at the floor, testing the ground tentatively. Once I was certain Cyrus wasn’t lying there, I slipped out from under the covers and crept toward the door. I opened it a crack. Not even the tiniest sliver of light snaked out from under Jordan’s closed door. Perfect.

I tiptoed across the landing and down the stairs. I couldn’t risk switching on the lights so I groped around the kitchen in the shadows. My little green book was tucked neatly into the pocket of my pajamas. Luckily, I’d memorized the recipe.

Unfortunately, the only wooden bowl we had was the size of Arizona. I really wanted to follow the instructions as closely as possible, in case I got it wrong and managed to turn my face purple or grow a beard or something, so I retrieved the monster bowl from under the kitchen island and placed it on the counter.

Next — the yogurt and cheese. The fridge light went on automatically so I didn’t have to dig blindly through long-forgotten leftovers or half-rotten fruit. I snatched a plastic yogurt tub and fished through the cold-cut compartment, locating a hunk of mouldy blue cheese. It wasn’t Limburger, but hey, it was better than a kick in the shins with a frozen Ugg. I shut the door and the sudden shift from light to darkness sent a million glowing dots swarming in front of me. I staggered blindly toward the counter, stubbing my toes in the corner. A single yelp escaped my lips before I managed to stifle myself. I scrunched my toes, letting the pain dissolve, but it was too late. Cyrus’s jingle-jangle tags and click-click-clicking of his nails across the ceramic tiles interrupted the silence.

Snorfle.

“I may not be able to see you, Cyrus,” I hissed, “but don’t think for a second I don’t know that look in your eye. Now, could you please just be quiet and stay out of my way?” I heard Cyrus slide to the ground, grunting once more just to let me know who was boss.

I got a spoon from the cutlery drawer and a cup from the cabinet. I measured out the yogurt and let it splat into the wooden bowl, plopping the hunk of cheese into the middle of it. My mother kept all the cereal in large plastic containers. I found the oatmeal, grabbed a handful and tossed it into the mixture.

Then I paused. The final ingredient required a bit of thought. A trio of wire baskets hung in the corner of the kitchen. There were a few oranges and some bananas in the lower basket, kiwis in the middle one, and fresh garlic in the top basket.

I shook my head. Nuh-uh. The combination of knives and darkness was a recipe for bloodshed. I couldn’t afford to lose a finger, so I opted for the fridge again where we kept a jar of pre-chopped garlic fermenting in oil. I snatched the jar and opened it. A cloud of hazy-stink assaulted my nostrils.

“Whew!” I said, fanning the air around me. I decided if this potion didn’t work, I could always try rubbing one of my best friend Paula-Jean Fanelli’s garlic-eggplant sandwiches on my face and hope for the best. For a second, I contemplated exactly what one clove of chopped garlic might look like, and then dumped in the whole jar just to be on the safe side.

Done.

I rubbed my hands together in anticipation and then dipped my fingers into the cool, mushy concoction. I mixed and mashed. I slid and swirled. The oatmeal was lumpy. The garlic was slippery. The cheese was stinky.

Minus the foul odour, I was almost starting to enjoy the experience when suddenly, the lights went on.