But suddenly it’s very clear what I have to do.
I pick up my tray.
“Where are you going?” Bianca asks.
A low murmur runs through the cafeteria. My heart beats so hard I’m sure everyone can hear it as I walk across the dining hall, but it’s not because I’m scared I’m making the wrong choice. Not at all. I know even before I thunk my tray down next to Paige’s that I’ll never regret it.
15
Somehow, when I imagined the big moment when I’d learn the truth about whether or not I was a witch, it didn’t take place at home with my mom on a Monday night.
“Should we light candles?” Mom leans forward from where she sits cross-legged on my bed.
“We’re not doing a séance.” I give the carpet a two-second break from the tread I’m wearing in it to crack the blinds and look out the window. The sun has edged behind the mansions on our street, bathing the sky in the pinks and oranges of sunset. It won’t be long before those colors fade to the inky black of night. Before the moon comes out.
“What do you think is going to happen?” Mom asks.
“Nothing—I told you. We really don’t have to make a big deal out of this. It’s not like the sky’s going to break apart or fireworks will start or something.”
“I know,” Mom says, waving a hand to dismiss my comment. “But it is a big deal. Coming into your powers is a momentous occasion.”
“Maybe coming into my powers,” I correct her. “There’s only a fifty percent chance, at best.”
Mom’s about to argue with me when, downstairs, a knock on the door interrupts her. We exchange confused looks.
I trail behind her to the door, flattening what I can of my frizzy curls. One can never be too prepared when suddenly single.
She opens the door.
“Hi, Ms. Blackwood.” Paige smiles shyly at Mom. “Hope I’m not barging in or anything. I brought candles.”
“How thoughtful!” Mom throws the door wide open. “Look, Ind. Paige is here.”
Paige clutches the candles in front of her and rocks up on the balls of her feet, making a point of not looking at me.
“I see that, Mom. Hi, Paige,” I say.
“Hey.” Paige directs a tight smile at me.
Mom looks from Paige to me. It’s not unusual for Paige to drop by unannounced, but it’s definitely unusual for me not to make some lame excuse and run for cover upstairs. Mom knows enough not to ask, though, instead muttering something about putting on a pot of coffee and bustling out of the room.
When I sat with Paige today in the cafeteria, she acted totally normal. She gave me a smile and introduced me to Jessie, which I was sure meant I didn’t owe her any further apologies for the years of mistreatment and sudden convenient timing of my change of heart. Or something. But apparently that’s not enough.
“So, um,” I start. “Thanks for letting me sit with you and, you know, not making a big deal about it. And I’m sorry I haven’t exactly been …” I trail off, unable to find the words to sum up everything I’m sorry for, and okay, hoping she’ll interrupt my apology so I don’t have to get into mortifying specifics. “Things have been weird the last … few years,” I finally stammer.
Crickets. Actual crickets are chirping. I continue.
“But I should have made time to hang out with you more—”
“More?”
“At all, no matter how much homework Mrs. Davies assigned, or how hectic it was balancing cheerleading and work, and no matter how little sleep I got, I should definitely have made the time. And I should have come to the barbeque, even with the whole revelation I might be a witch and the Devon and Bianca thing …”
She rolls her eyes.
Even I know that was a shitty apology. I’m about to start over when she holds up a hand to stop me. “It’s okay.”
I blink at her. “It is?”
She nods. “You’ve had a bad week. I know you’re sorry, even if you suck at admitting it. That’s what counts.”
I give her a grateful smile.
“And I know you’re going to be different now. I can tell.”
Okay, so there was a bit of a threat in her tone, but still. It’s much more than I deserve. I’ll take what I can get.
We walk into the kitchen and nab spots on opposite sides of the table.
“Whatcha watching, Ms. Blackwood?” Paige asks, slipping back into her old cheery ways.
Mom has paused mid–spooning out coffee grinds and is staring at the TV on the counter. “Oh, nothing,” she says, fumbling with the remote until the screen goes dark. “It’s a double double, right, Paige?” Her back is to me now.
“What’s going on, Mom?”
“Hmm?” She shoves the filter into the coffee machine. “It’s a double double, right? I can’t seem to remember. …”
I cross to the counter and flick the TV on.
A newscaster who has clearly never met a bottle of hair gel he didn’t like stands in front of the Getty. Yellow crime scene tape blocks off the entrance, and uniform-clad police officers chat near the doors.
“For those of you who’ve just tuned in,” the newscaster says, “we’re reporting live from in front of the Getty Center in Brentwood, where officials say at least thirty people simultaneously lost consciousness. When they awoke, hours had passed, and they had no memory of what happened. At this time, Getty representatives say it doesn’t appear as if anything has been stolen, but they are conducting a thorough investigation into the matter as we speak. This is just the latest in a string of what police say are bizarre incidents occurring throughout the city …”
All the blood drains from my head, and I feel faint. Chief Wiggum’s words the night the Bible went missing reverberate in my head. Blackouts. Memory loss. It’s the Priory—it has to be.
“Oh, sweetie.” Mom reaches past me and turns off the TV.
“Do you know what this means?” I ask.
The percolator bubbles and spits in the background.
“This isn’t just dangerous for witches,” I say. “It’s blackouts now, but what next? After they kill all the witches and they can do whatever they want? Just think of what this means!”
“I know,” Mom says to the linoleum, before shooting her focus back up to me. “Look, I’ve been thinking. Maybe if I talk to the girls at the next meeting—”
“No!” I cry out. “Mom, no one can know about this. Not the Wicca Society, not Aunt Penny, no one.”
“All right.” She raises a hand. “It was just an idea.”
A very bad idea, I want to say. There is no way any good would come of the public finding out about witches. Hello, Salem witch trials, anyone? But she’s just trying to help.
“It’s getting dark,” I say. We all look out the patio doors at the twilight that descends over the backyard.
Paige holds up the candles. “Lighter?”
Candles bathe my bedroom in flickering yellow light, casting ominous shadows that look like trees across the forest-green walls of my room. Paige sits on the bed, cradling a cup of coffee in her lap, while Mom stands vigil at the window. Me, I’m perched on the end of my computer desk, feet resting on the wooden chair that is so uncomfortable I sit in it only when I’m really serious about homework and don’t want to fall asleep.