A Witch and a Secret Read online

  I will miss her paintings, though. I have this beautiful painting of a fairy sleeping on a bed of leaves in a forest. Mom painted it for me for my tenth birthday. It hangs in my bedroom—it’s tiny, compared to her other paintings, only about ten by ten inches, but it’s my favorite.

  We get into the car and Dad starts the engine. The school is on the opposite side of town, but Mystic Hollow is so tiny that the drive only takes us about ten minutes. We drive through the Main Street, past the Fountain of the Four Witches, The Black Cat—the only restaurant-like establishment in town—and a few minutes later Dad parks the car in front of the high school.

  “Destination achieved,” Dad says cheerfully. Chloe pecks him on the cheek and jumps out of the car.

  “Um, Dad, you remember that I’m staying at Jessie’s tonight, right?” I ask tentatively. We’ve been discussing this for the last couple of weeks and my parents finally agreed that I could have a sleepover at my best friend’s house when her parents are out of town. And her seventeen-year-old brother is in, but that part just never came up in the conversation.

  “Does your mother know?” he asks innocently as if this is the first time he hears about it.

  “Dad!”

  “What?”

  “Ugh!” My dad is impossible. You can never tell if he’s joking or not. Most of the time he is, which is perfectly fine, but sometimes you just can’t tell. I would never, ever play poker with him.

  A rapping sound on the car window makes me jump. Chloe’s face stares at me through tinted glass. I blink twice in surprise, then roll down the window. “Why aren’t you in school?” I ask.

  I figured she went to school the moment she left the car. She doesn’t like people seeing us arrive together. She doesn’t like people knowing I’m her sister. Ever since Chloe started high school last year, she hasn’t made it a secret that she wants to be the most popular girl here. Not just one of the most popular girls. The most popular girl. And so far it has been working out for her. She’s on the cheerleading squad. She hangs out with the popular crowd. And, to top it all off, she manages to get good grades. I, on the other hand, am perfectly content reading a book at home, or watching a movie with my best friend, or researching a school project at the library. Does that make me weird? In Chloe’s eyes it definitely does. That’s why the thought of Chloe waiting for me to go to school together is inconceivable.

  “I’m waiting for you,” she says sweetly, but the way she squints her eyes suggests that it might be sarcasm. Or maybe the sun is shining too brightly.

  “Dad?” I ask once more.

  “All right, go,” he laughs. “I’ll tell your mother about the sleepover. If she forgets.” As I’m getting out of the car I swear I can hear him mumble, “If she actually notices.” I know this is one of those times when Dad is not joking. Mom can be so engrossed in painting, or cooking, or whatever other project she’s involved with at the moment, that she might not notice a plane crashing into her living room, let alone her daughter having a sleepover at someone else’s house.

  “I’d like to make some things clear,” Chloe says as soon as Dad’s car disappears from view.

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t huh me,” Chloe says derisively. “And listen carefully. I’ve already been seen with you and I suppose there’s no way to avoid everyone knowing that we’re related, but that’s where it ends. Is that clear?”

  “Um, sure?” I say, not knowing exactly how I’m supposed to react to something like this. Should I be offended or just ignore her? Besides, we’ve already had this conversation last year. Do I need to listen to this pep talk every year?

  “Anyway,” Chloe says. She keeps shifting from foot to foot and glancing over her shoulder. Making sure nobody sees her talking to her own sister? “Anyway, you know Jessie, right?”

  “My best friend Jessie? Sure.” I wonder where she’s going with this.

  “And you know her brother Logan, right?” Chloe is twisting the end of her braid nervously.

  “Sure. They live together,” I say. She knows Logan as well as I do. He used to hang out at our house with Jessie all the time. Not so much in the last couple of years, but still.

  “Well, um, I’d like you to ask him if he could ask Derek Smith from his football team if he would like to invite me to come with him to Brian’s party on Friday,” Chloe blurts out in one breath while her entire face explodes with color.

  Of all the things in the world she could have asked me, this is something I would have never expected. Is she asking me to be her matchmaker? Me, who has only dated fictional characters in my imagination? To help her get a date?

  “But don’t you see him every day when you have your cheerleading practice?” I ask, flabbergasted by the whole ordeal. “Why don’t you ask him out yourself?”

  “I can’t just ask him,” Chloe says, her cheeks turning as red as ripe tomatoes.

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” Chloe says stubbornly. “So, are you going to help me or not?”

  I sigh. “I guess I could ask Logan,” I say. What would be the harm in asking? “But I obviously can’t promise you anything more than that,” I say quickly.

  Chloe seems relieved, and her cheeks start returning to their normal shade. “Great,” she says. “Let me know how it goes.”

  We start walking toward school together, and almost make it all the way to the front gate, when suddenly my big sister instincts kick in. “Wait a minute,” I say. “Isn’t Derek two years older than you? He’s in the same year as Logan. He’s a senior, and you’re a sophomore.”

  Chloe’s cheeks get a hint of that blush again, but all she says is, “So what? Besides, you already promised.” And then she leaves me standing there alone as she runs towards the entrance. “See you after school!” she shouts before disappearing in the school hallways.

  I give up. No one remembers that I’m going to a sleepover tonight. If I come home tomorrow and the house is filled with police officers and sniffer dogs, that will so not be my fault.

  Chapter 2

  The gloomy halls of Mystic Hollow High greet me with all the warmth of an arctic glacier. It’s so nice outside that the contrast makes me shiver. The building is depressing, with its narrow corridors, antique drywall that chips in places, and stained glass windows that let in as little light as they can possibly get away with.

  I make my way to the lockers which are located in the east wing, the one that was added fifty or so years ago by a lunatic headmaster who wanted to use it as a boarding facility for especially troublesome kids. Fortunately for the kids, those plans never came through. Unfortunately for the rest of us, the east wing is now used for storage, which by some bizarre logic includes the lockers. It takes me a solid five minutes to get to the lockers from the front entrance and then the same amount of time to get to my first class.

  A chip of plaster falls off the ceiling and lands on my shirt. I watch in horror as it makes its way down my shoulder and then down the front of my shirt, leaving a long white trail behind. I try to rub it off but it only makes things worse. I try to stop myself from trying to fix it when someone bumps into me and throws me against the wall. The person responsible for the accident disappears in a crowd of students without a word of apology. Now, thanks to my encounter with the wall, my entire sleeve is covered in plaster. So much for looking nice on my first day of school.

  I sigh and try not to think about my ruined clothes. Especially since I have much more enticing things to think about. Like my sleepover at Jessie’s house tonight and the all-night marathon of The Undead Chronicles with popcorn and pizza. I’ll probably feel like a zombie tomorrow, but it will be so worth it.

  “Emmy!”

  I look up to pinpoint the person who is calling my name, but I already know who it is. I can easily recognize Jessie’s voice anywhere. My best friend in the entire universe is waiting for me in front of my locker, her floral school bag hanging over her shoulder, her golden brown hair in a loose braid, and a
huge grin spreads across her face. Jessie and I are second generation best friends: our moms were best friends even before we were born and I honestly can’t remember a time when Jessie and I weren’t close.

  “Hi,” I grin back at Jessie who moves to the side to give me better access to my locker. “Are we still on for tonight?”

  “Yep, the entire house is ours. Mom called this morning to confirm they won’t be back until Thursday. Although they will definitely be back on Thursday for the big game.” Jessie rolls her eyes. Her brother Logan plays football and apparently it’s a big deal. “Logan is going to be with Parker until midnight—Parker’s dad is so cool. Anyway, this is going to be awesome. An entire night of popcorn, pizza, and The Undead Chronicles,” Jessie says with a wink, and then her eyes cloud with that dreamy expression she always gets when someone mentions The Undead Chronicles—all five seasons of zombie slaying, gore, and incredibly gorgeous male protagonists.

  The last part is obviously the most important: it’s not the zombies or the gore that keep us glued to the screen for hours. That job belongs almost exclusively to Gabe and Warren, the two gorgeous hunks and stars of the show who do most of the zombie slaying. In the last season’s finale Warren hacked the heads off three zombies with just one swing of his chain. Jessie and I fangirled over that maneuver for a week. Not that we needed another reason to fangirl over Gabe or Warren, but it’s always nice to have one.

  I do my best to push the thoughts about hot zombie slayers into the back of my mind, open my school bag, and start shoving things into my locker. Things such as my change of clothing so that I don’t have to carry it with me all day. “Oh, by the way, did you bring the notebook?” I ask when the shoving is complete and my school bag is a few pounds lighter.

  Jessie’s dreamy expression changes into that of semi-focus on the outside world. She opens her bag and starts rummaging inside while the tip of her tongue is sticking out at the side of her mouth and her eyes roll up to the ceiling.

  “You can usually find stuff faster if you actually look inside your bag. You know that, right?” I ask.

  “Shortcuts are for wimps.” Jessie grins and continues torturing her bag. “There,” she says and produces a tattered green notebook. It looks rather small, smaller than any of the notebooks I use for my classes, and thin. The cover is a dusty green and there’s an embossed ornament in dark faded gold, something that looks like a Celtic knot.

  And is that smell coming from the notebook?

  I scrunch up my nose. “That’s not exactly what I was hoping for,” I say, sounding a little disappointed.

  “Well, I told you it was old. I think my grandmother kept it when she was our age. Here,” Jessie shoves the notebook at me and I grab it automatically. I hold it a few inches away from my body, making sure it doesn’t touch my clothes. The smell is definitely coming from the notebook.

  “We had a leaky roof a couple of years ago, so almost everything in the attic got soaked, including the notebook,” Jessie explains. Well, that somewhat explains the smell. Somewhat.

  A hand slams against my locker. The sound sends me into a three-foot jump and I drop the notebook. Jessie’s brother, Logan, catches it in midair and gives me a lopsided grin that even Warren from The Undead Chronicles can’t rival. I want to smack that grin right off his face, though. I know he startled me on purpose. He would’ve done that to Jessie had he come from a different direction. He’s basically a male version of Chloe.

  Logan examines the notebook. “Hey, isn’t this Grandma Rose’s?” he asks Jessie.

  “Yep,” Jessie snatches the notebook from him and stuffs it back inside her bag. For the last twelve years Jessie’s Grandma Rose has been in a loony bin, the very same one where my mom works as an art therapist. Jessie doesn’t like to talk about her.

  “About my plans for tonight—” Logan starts, but Jessie doesn’t let him finish and holds her hands up. “No,” she says.

  “You don’t even know what I’m going to say,” Logan pretends to be offended.

  “Oh yes, I do. Parker has bailed on you, hasn’t he? Where is he?” She jumps up and down trying to get a peek over Logan’s shoulder. As if Parker’s six feet two inches could hide behind Logan’s six one.

  “I’m afraid he has.” Logan’s lopsided smile returns. He doesn’t sound upset at all.

  “No way. You promised. We had a deal. You were supposed to be staying at Parker’s tonight so that we could actually have fun.” Jessie is mad, and for good reason. Logan likes to sit with us when we watch The Undead Chronicles and make stupid comments about the show. Not because he doesn’t like it—he loves it—he just loves to annoy us more.

  “I know, and I’m sorry”—no, he’s not—“but it’s not my fault that he’s not back from a hunting trip with his dad. He just sent me a text.” Logan waves his phone in front of Jessie’s face. It reminds me of a matador waving a red flag in front of a bull and the effect it produces is quite similar: Jessie’s nostrils flare, her eyes squint into tiny slits, and she is about to pounce on him.

  The bell rings and drags me out of the stupor. “We have to go,” I say as I grab Jessie’s hand and drag her away from whatever imaginary torture she’s inflicting on her brother. Jessie groans, but doesn’t resist.

  “Ugh, how can someone be this annoying?” Jessie says. I don’t answer, because by now I know it’s a rhetorical question. “He’s just so—ugh!”

  “Yes, I believe the dictionary defines ugh as the most annoying person in the world, aka a sibling.”

  Jessie giggles. “So true.”

  “Talking about siblings, you won’t believe what Chloe has been up to.” I tell Jessie all about our new diet, Chloe’s continuing obsession with being the most popular girl in school, and her complete disregard for my feelings when she gave me another anti-pep talk this morning and then ditched me right before school.

  “I bet she would disown me from the family if she could,” I say quietly as we settle in our history class. Mr. Mason gives us a reproachful look from beneath his constantly frowning eyebrows.

  I don’t tell Jessie about the part where Chloe asked me to be her matchmaker. This warrants an entire conversation of its own. Besides, if I tell her now, she will probably burst out laughing and the teacher won’t appreciate that.

  I TRY TO KEEP MY ATTENTION on the lesson, but my mind drifts away. Mr. Mason is the most boring teacher in the universe. He reads his lessons from a notebook and never looks up unless someone makes a noise. I don’t think he likes his students very much, or people in general. He definitely doesn’t like to be reminded that there are other people in the room. If someone coughs or sneezes, it can cost them an hour of detention. On the other hand, as long as you show up for classes, you can pretty much expect a good grade without putting any additional effort into it. In my case, it’s a good thing, because my brain has a very hard time processing the inordinate amount of information in the history textbook, let alone memorizing all the important dates, facts, and events.

  Usually, after about five minutes of trying to focus on the lesson and miserably failing at it, I start daydreaming or checking what other students are doing. But today neither of those things is enough to occupy my brain, so I flip my notebook to the back and write a note asking Jessie to show me her grandmother’s notebook. Jessie reads the note and reaches for her school bag, then quietly takes the notebook out and passes it to me under the table. I take it, doing my best to ignore the stench, which proves difficult. It doesn’t smell like rainwater. I suspect a rat might have gotten to it before the elements did. I hope I’m wrong.

  I open the notebook and look at the first page. The entire page is covered with runic letters that have faded from age and wear, but are still recognizable. I can’t read or recognize any of them, though. It’s not like we study runic alphabets in school.

  When Jessie found the notebook, she was intrigued, but not so much by the runes as by the parts written in English. I flip over to the next page and there i
t is, in plain English, written in a pretty cursive script at the very top of the page: Appear in someone’s dream, followed by instructions on how to make a sachet with herbs to put under your pillow with the name of the person whose dream you want to visit. The only problem is that you need to say a spell over the sachet, and the spell is written entirely in runes. How convenient.

  I skim a few more pages. The notebook is filled with what can only be called magic spells—

  Find a lost object.

  Create a protective amulet.

  Make someone think about you.

  Make someone stop thinking about you.

  Make someone not be able to see you.

  Huh, I’d like to use that one sometime.

  The entire notebook is filled with things like that. Everything is explained in English, but every spell, or incantation, or whatever it is you are supposed to say to make things happen, is written in runes. Bummer. Not that I actually believe that these things are real. I don’t. I’m a rational person. And Grandma Rose—who wrote everything in this notebook—is currently in a loony bin, which is a place for very irrational people.

  When Jessie called me about the notebook, she was so excited. And what did I do? I asked her if maybe that notebook had something to do with the fact that her grandmother was confined to a mental hospital. I’m not proud of myself, obviously, but what else was I supposed to think?