22

I shoved Hollis aside, nearly knocking her off her stool. It killed our touching moment.

“Hey!” she shouted, but there was no time to explain. I was already halfway out the door.

I danced side to side, waiting for a lull in the traffic. By the time it was safe to cross, Hollis was hanging on to me and I was dragging her across the street, chasing after my runaway bubble-package.

“Wait!” I shouted. “Stop!” But my package kept moving, weaving in and out of pedestrian-traffic like a running-back heading for a touchdown.

I let go of Hollis, who couldn’t keep up, and broke into a full-blown sprint. I nearly knocked several people over, including the old lady I’d seen enter the drugstore, before I caught up to my package. Reaching out, I grabbed hold of the shiny teal and orange shirt of its captor. I dug my heels into the concrete, and managed to bring the guy to a standstill. He swung round to face me — all seven feet of him — swatting at my hand like I was some kind of insect.

“You stole it!” I shouted up at him. “You stole my package!”

“What?” said the guy in the Miami Dolphins jersey. “What are you going on about, little lady?”

I was fuming. This guy had completely, totally, and miserably blown my most awesome plan. I didn’t know how he did it, but he had stolen my package and ruined everything and I wasn’t about to let him get away with it.

“My package!” I said, anger shooting like sparks from every fibre of my being. I pointed an accusing finger at the bubble-envelope. “How did you get hold of my package!”

I could tell by his expression that he was more than confused than angry. “Your package?” he said. He held out the envelope for me to see. “Now that’s funny. How did your package go and get itself addressed to me and get placed in my mail box?”

Wham! I felt like I’d just been run over by the entire Miami defensive line. Impossible. No way. Not a chance. I shook my head. The world around me began to spin. I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. I thought I was going to heave all over the guy’s giant white Nikes. I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths. When my stomach settled, I opened my eyes. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my little green book. I held it in my trembling hands, running my fingers across the author’s name. The White Witch. Hollis had caught up with us by now. She volleyed glances between me, the book, and the enormous man standing in front of me.

“It can’t be,” I said, my voice quivering. “You’re not a … a … a …”

“A witch?” he said, eyeing the book and smiling warmly.

“You’re not even … wha … wha—”

“White?” he said, his grin spreading like butter across his lips.

How could this be? I wracked my brain. How could I have been this wrong about something I was so absolutely sure of?

“You are W. White?” I said, disbelief echoing in every syllable.

“Sure am,” he said. “Wayne White. At your service.” He tipped his head. Then he took the book from my hands, flipping through the pages. His eyes were twinkling like he was remembering an old friend. “I see you’ve read one of my books.” He held it out for me.

I took a step back. No way. This was all wrong. This couldn’t be happening. W. White was a witch. A woman. A White Witch who was going to help me de-hex Hollis.

I felt myself deflating like a punctured beachball. Poor Hollis. What was I going to do now? I’d cursed her and then promised her I’d fix everything. I dragged her out of her home and through the city. And for what? For it all to end like this? I looked at her apologetically. She didn’t say a word. I could tell she was thinking the same thing. She took the book from the man and gently placed it into my hands.

Tears welled in my eyes. “I-I used your b-book to cast a binding spell on my friend. And I lost the string and I can’t remove the spell. I-I was hoping the White Witch — I mean, you could wave your magic wand or something and fix everything.”

He stared at me for what felt like an eternity. He was still smiling, but something in his eyes had changed — I felt those two dark pools looking right into me. Right through me.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” he said quietly. “I have no magic powers.”

My heart felt like it had fallen into quicksand and was sinking fast. This guy was my last hope. He just had to be able to help me. “But, you wrote this book,” I said. “You are the White Witch, even if you don’t look like one. Can’t you do something? Anything?”

He sighed and shook his head. “I wrote that book all right. But I’m not the person you’re looking for. I’m a writer. I write things. I wrote a bunch of those little books, you know, Cheeses and Chutneys, The Best of Bananas. It pays the bills — tides me over until I can publish what I’m really passionate about.”

“And what’s that?” asked Hollis.

“Poetry,” he said.

This was great. Just great. I went on a wild and crazy journey to find a little white witch and what I found was a seven-foot poet. Still, I’d come this close and I wasn’t going to give up that easily. “So you’re telling me this book isn’t magic?” I said. “You’re saying it has no magic power whatsoever? That I didn’t really cast any spells?”

He took a deep breath and put a hand on my shoulder. He slowly shook his head.

Hollis began to sniffle. I think the reality of her situation was sinking in. If the book had no power and I didn’t actually hex her — then she was really and truly sick. And what was worse, there was nothing I, or any witch, could do to help her.

I just wouldn’t accept it. I couldn’t. “But my zit … and Jordan … and Hollis …” I said, my voice fading to a whisper. “I was so sure …”

“Not everything in life is what it appears to be,” he said, taking his hand from my shoulder. “Nothing is simple, either. Life isn’t ever black or white. Mostly it’s just shades of grey.”

For a second, Wayne White reminded me a lot of my father. That made me think of my parents — of Hollis’s parents. I needed to get Hollis home. I’d caused her enough trouble, might as well get her home on time, if nothing else.

“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you,” I said to Wayne White. I turned toward Hollis and took her gently by the arm. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

Slowly, we started walking toward the streetcar stop. Over my shoulder, I heard Wayne White say, “My grandma used to say believin’ goes a long way …”

Perfect. Exactly what I needed. I came all this way and dragged Hollis along just for some stupid saying my father could have tossed at me back home. Home. It suddenly felt a long way away. And it was going to get even longer still.

“Now remember,” I said to Hollis, as the streetcar approached. “Take the northbound subway to Finch Station. From there, take the 2A bus. It will bring you right to your street.”

Her face contorted. “What? Why are you giving me directions? You’re coming, aren’t you?”

I could see panic flash in her eyes as I shook my head. She began to argue as the streetcar buzzed to a halt and the doors smacked open. I grabbed her hand and placed the bus fare in her palm — the last of my money. “Remember, the 2A.”

I ushered her on board. I could still hear her cursing long after the doors sealed shut. I stood there watching the streetcar disappear down Queen Street. I suddenly felt very alone.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out Jordan’s phone. Just before I began to dial, I noticed a white spot on my shoulder where Wayne had put his hand. Could it possibly be clown makeup?