Her eyes glisten, and my heart is ripped from my chest. And there’s nothing, nothing I can do. I have no idea why she wasn’t told.
“No big deal.” Mom gives me a tiny smile. “Must be a witch-only kind of thing. At least she gave me the Bible. You know, trusted me to protect it. That means a lot.”
She breaks down, sobbing. I pull her into a hug, taking in her scent—a combination of Pantene Curly Hair Series, Chantilly perfume, cigarettes, and something else uniquely Mom. “I’m sure there’s a good reason, Mom. There has to be.”
Paige shifts on the love seat opposite us as Mom releases deep, shuddery sobs.
“You could be in danger,” Mom says between gulps for air. “And it’s all my fault.”
“What?” I draw back to get a good look at her face.
“The Bible,” she says. “It was my job to—”
“And you were unconscious,” I interrupt. “And those were superpowerful sorcerers. A human would be no match for them. You shouldn’t feel bad.”
She gives a minute shake of her head.
“Seriously,” I continue, “it’s the Family’s fault for not coming for the Bible sooner, after Grandma died, when you had no way to protect it.” I can’t believe that, in just hours, I’ve gone from a nonbeliever to casually name-dropping the Family in conversation.
“Does seem a little strange,” Mom mutters.
“Exactly.” I sling my arm back around her shoulders.
“I just …”
“What?” I ask.
She sighs. “Well, I just wish that I could coach you through all this. I don’t know anything about this type of stuff. Wicca and this, they’re completely different ball games. I mean, flying?” She lets out a hopeless laugh.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “Bishop said he’ll show me the ropes if I turn.”
At my lie, Paige shoots me a look, which I put down with a discreet throat-cutting gesture. Mom doesn’t need anything else to worry about right now. And anyway, the full moon’s three days away. Lots of time to plan something between now and then.
“Plus,” I add, “Bishop said there’s nothing to worry about. The ball’s out of our court. We just need to get back to normal life.”
“Normal life?” Mom repeats.
“Yep. Starting now. I’m going upstairs because the sun is coming up and going to bed at sunrise is so not normal.”
Mom seems to realize, for the first time, that dawn has filtered in through the half-drawn venetian blinds, illuminating the Mexican-knickknack-filled living room with soft pink light.
“I guess,” she says, and we all push to our feet.
Paige lets herself out, and Mom concedes to let me guide her upstairs.
Even though I’ve been up for more than twenty-four hours, I didn’t once feel tired. How could I? But now, with Mom safe and asleep in the next room, I fall into a coma as soon as my head hits the pillow.
When I wake up, I’m sure of at least two things. One is that the sun has already set. The other is that I’ve slept way, way too long, and now will suffer all night with a massive sleep headache. My phone beeps, reminding me of a third thing—that I’ve missed about forty calls. Half from Devon, and about as many from Paige. And that brings up a big, huge thing that I’m not sure of: what the hell happened last night.
There was something in there about witches and sorcerers and Devon screwing my best friend and people wanting to kill me. And Bishop. But none of that seems real now; it's like some nightmare that will fade away once I’m fully awake.
I open my first text message. It’s from Devon: plz answer, u have to hear me out.
So I guess that part was real. My stomach clenches. I vaguely remember not caring about it all last night when I was with Bishop, but Bishop’s not here now. In fact, he never will be again, if I can believe anything he’s said. Tears blur my vision. As if on cue, my cell phone starts buzzing in my hand, and a picture of Devon—my favorite picture of him, sweaty and smiling in his football jersey after the game against Beverly Hills High—flashes onto the screen. My chest contracts painfully, and my thumb hovers over the keypad before I finally press Ignore.
There’s a knock on my door. Mom pokes her head inside without waiting for a response.
“Just wanted to let you know I put leftovers from the barbecue in the fridge,” she says.
Barbecue? Shit—the barbecue Paige invited me to. The one I promised I’d attend. I cross to my window and crack the blinds. It’s dark, the barbecue cover is on, and her backyard is conspicuously devoid of party guests. Shit, shit, shit.
So, Paige sticks by my side even after I’ve treated her like complete crap, conceding to be dragged along on one suicide mission after the next, and I can’t even bother to amble next door for a stupid sloppy joe? I suck. Big-time.
I want to climb back into my warm bed, hide under my duvet, and cry until the world becomes a less cruel place to live, or until high school graduation. Whichever comes first.
So that’s what I do.
14
Mom has to literally drag me out of bed on Monday morning. She shovels Cocoa Puffs into my mouth and even goes so far as to try to dress me in this hideous last-season tracksuit she dug out of the dregs of my closet. I snap out of it long enough to throw on jeans and a tank top instead.
I’m almost out the door when I decide that a little makeup wouldn’t hurt. And what the hell, why not wear some cute sunglasses and those wedge sandals I bought last week? I mean, just because my boyfriend cheated on me, my best friend betrayed me, Bishop deserted me, I might be a witch, and evil sorcerers could try to kill me with the Bible they stole from my family doesn’t mean I can’t look good, right?
I sling my messenger bag over my shoulder and venture outside for the first time in days.
It should be raining. That’s how it works, right? Bad day / rain? Well, I guess L.A. didn’t get the memo, because the sun sits high in a cloudless blue sky. A warm breeze flutters the fronds of the palm trees along Melrose Avenue, and at a stoplight I swear I hear birds (birds in L.A.!) chirping a tune eerily similar to “Walking on Sunshine.” And it’s just so, I don’t know, uplifting, that I get to thinking that today might not be as bad as I thought.
But my feet haven’t even passed through the doors of Fairfield High when the staring starts. And by staring, I mean necks practically snapping as people trip over each other to get a look at me. My cheeks burn under my oversized sunglasses. I mean, I knew people were talking about me. After ripping apart Bianca’s collage of us, I deleted all my pictures of her and Devon from Instagram and Facebook. And while doing that, I couldn’t help but notice the one topic that everyone couldn’t stop talking about: me. I also couldn’t help noticing how many times Bianca and Devon mentioned how sick they were after the party, because they were sooo drunk. Yeah, sure. But all that’s beside the point—doesn’t anyone have anything better to do than analyze my life?
Tilting my chin up, I march into the school like a zillion eyes aren’t following me. And the fake confidence actually works. I find myself thinking, Who cares? This’ll all blow over.
But my attitude only lasts until I reach my locker. I’m unloading my next-period textbooks when I hear my name. I look over my shoulder, and when I do, I find the Amy/Ashley twins whispering from their post by the water fountain. They look away once they realize I’ve heard them, which just confirms that they are in fact talking about me. And that’s when I lose it. My blood turns cold even as my pulse races. Sure, we’re not exactly best friends, and yeah, I’ve snickered along when Bianca mocked their style choices, but where is the squad loyalty?