— Mariska Svenson, Bodø, Norway, 1873
“It’s okay, Alisa,” said my friend Mary K. Rowlands on Monday afternoon. “You’re not a guy. You can come in.”
I laughed and followed her into the living room. Both of Mary K.’s parents worked, and she and her sister, Morgan, weren’t allowed to have boys over when their parents weren’t there. It was so funny—almost antique. But her folks are really Catholic and keep Mary K. and Morgan on pretty tight leashes.
“Let’s hang in the kitchen,” Mary K. called over her shoulder.
“That’s where the food is,” I agreed.
Everything about the Rowlandses’ house looks like it got frozen in about 1985. The living room is done in hunter green plaids with maroon accents. The kitchen is dusty blue and dusty pink, with a goose theme. It’s corny, but oddly comforting. Now that my evil stepmother-to-be was madly redecorating the house I shared with my dad, I really appreciated anything familiar.
I dumped my messenger bag on the wood-grained Formica table while Mary K. rustled through the fridge and the pantry. She surfaced with a couple of bottles of Frappuccino, some apples, and a big bag of peanut M&M’s.
I nodded my approval. “I see you’ve covered all the major food groups.”
She grinned.“We aim to please.”
We settled down at the kitchen table with our food and our textbooks open. I had been going to Mary K.’s pretty often after school lately—I guess to avoid going home—and Mary K. was really cool. A good friend. She seemed so normal and kind of reassuring somehow, especially compared to Morgan. Morgan had done a lot to weird me out in the past. I still wasn’t sure what to make of her.
“Alisa?” Mary K. said, twirling a strand of hair around one finger as she frowned at her math book. “Do you have any idea what the difference is between real and natural numbers?”
“No,” I said, and took a swig of Frappuccino. “Hey, did Mark ask you out for Friday?”
“No,” she said, looking disappointed. She’d been crushing on Mark Chambers for weeks now, but though he was really nice to her, he didn’t seem to be picking up on her “date me” vibes. “But it’s only Monday. Maybe I could ask him, if he hasn’t asked me by Thursday.”
“You go, Mary K. Fight the system.” I smiled, encouraging her. Then I sighed, thinking about my own romantic possibilities. “God, I wish I had a crush on someone. Or someone had a crush on me. Anything to break up the delirious joy of being around my dad and Hilary.”
Mary K. made a sympathetic face.“How’s the Hiliminator?”
I shrugged, my shoulders rising and falling dramatically. “Well, she’s still with us,” I reported dryly, and Mary K. laughed. My dad’s pregnant girlfriend had recently moved into our house, and now she was already pooching out in front, before they were actually getting hitched. I couldn’t believe my straitlaced, ultraconservative dad had gotten himself into this nightmare. It was like living with a couple of strangers. “But she’s quit barfing, which is good. Every time I had to listen to her hurl, I got the dry heaves.”
“Maybe the baby will be incredibly cute, and you’ll be a great big sister, and when she grows up, you guys will be really close,” Mary K. suggested. She couldn’t help it: she was born to pour sunshine on other people. It was one of the things I loved about her.
“Yeah,” I allowed. “Or maybe it’ll be a boy, and when I’m forced to change his diaper, he’ll pee right in my face.”
“Oh, gross!” Mary K. shrieked, and we both started laughing. “Alisa, that is so, so gross. If he ever does that, do not tell me about it.”
“Anyway,” I said with a giggle, “I’ve been suggesting names. If it’s a girl, Alisa Junior. If it’s a boy, Aliso.”
We were still laughing about that one when the back door opened and Morgan came in. She smiled when she saw us, and I made myself smile back. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Morgan. It was mostly that I thought she was kind of dangerous—even though she could be nice and thoughtful sometimes. Morgan is a witch, a real witch. Some kids around here are—they call themselves blood witches because they’re born to it, like having blue eyes or bad skin. Mary K. isn’t, because though they are sisters, Morgan was adopted.
Morgan and some other kids from my high school (Mary K. is a freshman, I’m a sophomore, and Morgan is a junior) even have their own coven, called Kithic. I had been to circles with Kithic and had thought they were so... incredible. Special. Natural, somehow. But I had quit going a while back when Morgan had started making scary things happen, like breaking things without touching them. Like that girl in Carrie. And I saw her make crackling blue energy on her hand once. Mary K. had even told me (in total secret) that she thought Morgan had done something magicky when their aunt’s girlfriend had cracked her head open at an ice rink. Mary K. said that Paula had looked like she was really hurt, and everyone was freaking, but Morgan put her hands on her and fixed her. I mean, how scary is that? It wasn’t anything I wanted to be around.
“Youngsters,” Morgan greeted us with a snobby nod. But she was just kidding—she and Mary K. get along really well.
“You know, Morgan,” Mary K. said with an innocent expression, “I’m the same age younger than you as you are from Hunter. Isn’t that funny?” No one can look more wide-eyed and who-me? than Mary K.
Morgan dropped her backpack on the kitchen table with a heavy thud and gave Mary K. a poisonous look—then they both laughed. I wished I had a sister—no, not one fifteen years younger than me, but a real one, whom I could talk to and hang out with, who could join forces with me against my wicked stepmonster-to-be.
“Studying, are we?” Morgan asked.
“We are,” said Mary K. “Trying to, at least.”
Morgan reached into the fridge and grabbed a Diet Coke. She popped the top and drank, leaning against the counter. Hilary had banished sodas from our house—we were all supposed to eat more healthily than that—and I found myself watching Morgan with envy. I almost wanted to have a soda here just because I could, even though I hate Diet Coke. Morgan set down the can, wiped her mouth on her sleeve, and breathed out. She’d gotten her fix.
“You know, watching you do that makes me feel... tainted somehow,” Mary K. observed, and Morgan laughed again.
“Nature’s perfect food,” she said, then got some hamburger out of the fridge and pulled out a big frying pan. When the fridge door shut again, a small gray cat streaked into the room and stood around mewing.
“He heard the fridge,” Mary K. said.
“Hey, Dag, sweetie,” Morgan said, bending down to give him a tiny bit of hamburger. The kitten mewed loudly again, then chowed down, purring hard.
“Are we having tacos?” Mary K. asked.
“Burritos.” Morgan opened the package and dumped the meat into the pan.
“The Hiliminator can’t stand the smell of meat lately,” I said, feeling a thin new layer of irritation settle over me. “Or fried food. Or spicy food. It makes her sick. We’re down to like three acceptable food items at my house: bread, rice, and crackers.”
Morgan nodded as sympathetically as Mary K. had. “You can come over here and eat real food whenever you want.”
“Thanks,” I said. “So you’re going to ask Mark out?” I asked Mary K.
“I guess,” said Mary K.
“He’s cute,” said Morgan. She put a cutting board on the table, elbowing her backpack out of the way. The top hadn’t been fastened tight, and a couple of books and notebooks spilled out. I glanced at them as she pushed the bag aside and set a block of cheddar cheese on the board, along with a grater. “Grate,” she told Mary K.
“I’m doing my homework,” Mary K. pointed out.
“You’re talking about cute guys. Grate.”
The books in Morgan’s backpack caught my eye. One was an advanced calc book; then there were two spiral notebooks with doodles on the covers, and another, green-covered book, like an old-fashioned diary, peeped out from underneath those.