"You almost knocked me down," he says, taking a step away from them. 76
I look at him, feeling my face scrunch up, wondering who in god's name he is.
"Tim," he says, reminding me.
"Right," I say, finally putting the pieces in place--the guy from the other day, the Gap attire, the medium brown gelled-up hair, the way he pointed out the directions to Ketcher Hall using my map.
"Where are you headed?" he asks.
"My room," I say, thinking how it must be obvious.
"How about some food first?"
"Food?" I repeat, like it's as foreign of a word as chromatin or nucleoplasm. I glance toward the pack of girls he was standing with, wondering if he's suddenly forgotten about them. One of them folds her arms in my direction, a huge scowl across her makeup-adorned face.
"Yeah," Tim continues. "Food." He smiles wider, adjusting his cap. "Don't you eat? I have an in with the cafeteria lady--she always saves the fresh stuff for me."
"Sure," I say.
"Great!"
"No. I mean, no."
His face twists up in confusion.
"I mean, sure . . . yeah . . I eat--all the time, actually. Just not now. I have some serious catching up to do."
"Not on an empty stomach."
"A girl can live on snack food alone."
"Sounds like you speak from experience."
"Ring Dings and Cheez Doodles--basic staples of prep school." 77
"What kind of a healthy diet is that?" he asks.
"The only kind I have time for--if I want to stay in college for longer than a week, that is."
"Well, then, can I raincheck you? Maybe we could get dinner some time? I wasn't going to mention this," he pauses to glance over both shoulders, "but I also have an in with Pizza Prison across the street. What do you say to Double-Bubble Criminal Crust and Garlic-Cheesy Bankrobber Bread?"
"Excuse me?" I laugh.
"I take it you haven't been there yet."
I shake my head.
"So what do you say?"
I pause a moment to look at him--the way he's beaming at me, how his soft brown eyes crinkle up when he smiles, and how he's doing this cute little back and forth shuffle with his feet. "I have a boyfriend," I say, finally.
"Oh," he says, taking a step back. "Sorry, I didn't mean to--"
"No," I say. "It's fine. I just gotta go."
I turn on my heel and walk away, just like that--feeling like a complete and utter jerk. It's just . . I don't know--too weird, too uncomfortable . . . too familiar. And I'm nowhere near ready for familiar yet.
I climb the three floors to our room, passing by that Sage girl yet again. She's carrying a basket of laundry. A silver pentacle dangles from a wiry rope chain around her neck, reminding me what I stand for--how it would be stupid for me to prejudge her based on clothes or rumors.
"Hi," I venture.
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She does a double take at me, as though surprised that I'm actually speaking to her. She nods me a quick hello and then continues on her way.
When I get to my room, I grab my bathing essentials--including a bottle of eucalyptus oil to help cure myself of this funk, and some apple cider vinegar for its ability to cleanse the mind--and head down the hall to the bathroom. My grandmother, who taught me most of what I know about the art of kitchen witchery, always stressed the importance of properly cleansing the body in preparation for a spell. The spell I want to do this afternoon involves restoration; I need to start rebuilding the fragments of my life. After a walloping thirty-five minutes spent standing under the bliss of steamy water mixed in eucalyptus and apple cider fumes, I slip into my study uniform (my favorite pair of flannel pajamas) and head back to the room. Janie's there; she's sitting on her swirly pink bed linens, painting her toenails a coordinating shade of strawberry.
"Hi," I say.
She forces a smile, her mood much less sticker-worthy than our last conversation. "Some girl named Drea called for you."
"Thanks," I say, reaching for the phone, feeling a sting of guilt that I didn't try calling her sooner.
"She said she was going out," Janie tells me. "She'll call you when she gets in." 79
I bite my bottom lip and return the phone to the desk, a bit disappointed--a bit lonely maybe. "How was your faith club meeting?"
She shrugs. "Okay, I guess."
"What do you guys talk about anyway?"
"All kinds of stuff. Stuff we're dealing with, stuff we're going through, parents, pressures
. . . God."
"You know, witches believe in God, too."
Janie sighs, like she doesn't want to get into it. Amber and I were really worried about you," she says, changing the subject.
"I know. I'm sorry. I just have a lot to deal with right now."
"Amber told me." She dabs one of her toenail screw-ups with a cotton ball of nail polish remover.
About Jacob?"
She pauses from dabbing to look at me. "Is that okay?" I nod and look away--into my stash of spell supplies.
"Well, if you ever need to talk about it, I'm a great listener. My friends tell me so all the time."
More nodding, imagining myself opening up to Miss Sticker Album herself. I glance above her head at the collage she's made--a zillion magazine cutouts of cats, with a bright pink sign that says "Cat-cha Later." But then I feel a pang of guilt. She's obviously just trying to be nice.
"So glad to see you bathed," she adds, with a smile. "It was starting to smell like sweaty socks in here."
Maybe nice isn't the right word. I muster a smirk, remembering how Amber said my stench was making Janie's
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head ache. Maybe I should burn a little fish oil--give her head something to really ache about. I take a deep breath, reminding myself about the rule of three--how whatever I send out into the universe will come back to me three times. The last thing I need to deal with right now is a whopper of a headache on top of everything else. I remove some spell supplies from my suitcase--including a plastic food tray, a box of self-hardening clay, a pen and paper, a sponge, and a jar of moon-bathed rainwater--and position the family scrapbook on the floor by my side. Big and bulky, with yellowing pages and hardened candle wax droplets in the corners, the scrapbook has been passed down in my family for generations. It was given to me by my grandmother just before she passed away. It's basically this big jumble of stuff--spells, home remedies, favorite lines of poetry, and passed-down holiday recipes--all written by people in my family before me, those who, like me, had the gift of insight.
I flip the book open to a spell written by Kayleigh, my great-great grandmother's first cousin, and then I set the tray down, spreading the supplies on it, and remove the wad of clay from the box.
"Is that some art project?" Janie asks.
"Not exactly."
"Wait," Janie says, capping her bottle of nail polish. "You're not doing that witch stuff in here, are you? I mean, it's bad enough that you do it at all." 81
"I practice magic," I say, lighting a stick of incense and setting it down in its holder. "The real kind, not the Charmed kind."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means that I use my magic in a positive way--to gain insight, to help others. No one gets hurt and I don't desecrate gravesites--that includes stealing their plot flowers." She folds her arms and looks away, like the mere image of me and my spells will turn her to stone. "I just don't believe in that stuff."
"Well, whether you believe it or not, it exists."
"No, I mean, it's against my beliefs."
"Look." I sigh. "I'd do my spell outside, but it's thirty below--at least it feels that way--and there's really no place else." I run my makeshift pottery tools--a plastic fork, a wooden spoon, and one-half of a broken CD cover--through the incense smoke to charge them. Then I pluck my crystal cluster rock from my night table and grip it in my palm.
"I live here, too, you know," she snaps.
"Janie," I say, "it'
s not what you're thinking. You'd be surprised; we probably have a lot more in common than you think, belief-wise."
"I doubt it." She averts her gaze and fishes though her smiling-watermelon-stickercovered purse for a cell phone. "I'm leaving," she huffs. She dials her way out of the room, slamming the door shut behind her.
A major plus, especially since negativity like that is bound to screw up my spell. I let out a cleansing breath before taking the smoking incense and rotating it three times 82
over my spread of supplies, in an effort to clear the air and create a sacred space. The puffy gray smoke hovers over the area, filling the room with a lemongrass scent, reminding me right away of Jacob. I gaze down at the crystal in my hand, remembering how he gave it to me for protection--how he promised me we'd always be together. And yet I feel so all alone.
I glance over at the scrapbook, noting how Kayleigh suggests picturing your problem like the mound of clay and working it down pancake-thin, until you have complete control over it. I place the crystal to the side and dip my sponge in the rainwater, wetting the clay block down until it's fully saturated. The moistness helps to soften the clay, enabling me to round out the edges and work at the center. After several minutes spent pushing and kneading, the cool gray mass is supple under my touch and I'm able to flatten it out.
Except I know full well it's going to take a lot more than breaking down a wad of clay to solve my problem. I close my eyes, feeling the hot-wax tears drip down the creases of my face and spatter my pancake of clay. I honestly don't know if I'll ever be able to get on with my life. But, like Amber said, I owe it to myself to try. I need to rebuild the walls of my world before the foundation cracks and there's nothing left. With a deep, inhaling breath, I gather a wad of clay and roll it out between both palms to create a coil. I add it to the foundation and create more coils, building up the walls to create a bowl-like structure. "Save these walls from warp and wilt," I whisper. "With newfound strength, my world
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rebuilt. I know not how I Shell be strong, but I must remember my life goes on. Blessed be the way."
I run the incense smoke over the bowl, concentrating on the idea of rebuilding my life. Then I grab the pen and paper and write my question across it: WHAT DO I NEED TO
DO TO GET ON WITH MY LIFE? I fold the paper up and place it into the bowl, hoping that my dream tonight will bring me the answer.
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Shell
Shell wakes up with a gasp and sits up in bed, his heart pounding hard. Brick and the others are still asleep. He looks at the clock--5 AM; he still has another hour before he has to get up. But how is he supposed to fall back asleep when he can't stop shaking?
He grabs a pen and a piece of paper from the space on the floor beside his bed and writes the words "To Candace, forever, with love," just as it was inscribed in the pocket 85
watch at the old couple's place. He looks down at the words, wondering why he dreamt about them, why they plague him so. He could hear the words chanting in his head, getting louder and louder by the moment, until he couldn't take it anymore and forced himself to wake up.
Does he know Candace somehow--from some place he's not remembering?
He shakes his head, frustrated by his lack of memory but, at the same time, grateful for it. Aside from his life at the camp during the past few months, he has no recollection of anything. Mason said it's because his past was so horrific that his brain is trying to protect him by blocking out the events, vaguely mentioning a life on the streets, complete with a near-fatal illness, some time spent in jail, and constant begging for food and money. Mason's also assured him that it's better he can't remember these things, that such horrific details might stunt his brain even more.
But now he wants to know.
He grabs another piece of paper and writes a question mark across it, wondering about his mind, if one day it might deteriorate completely. He folds the two pieces up and slips them under his pillow, beside the rock with the pentacle on it, silently praying for recollection.
Less than an hour later, Shell wakes up--this time, energized by his dream. He dreamt about Lily
It felt good to see her so happy last night, to feel her body close to his, and to touch her like that. It almost made
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the whole idea of what they were doing--according to Clay, Mason, and the rest, not stealing from others, but providing well-off people the opportunity to give when they probably otherwise wouldn't--less harsh . . more acceptable.
Almost.
The glint in Lily's eyes when she wrapped the mink stole around her and set the hat high atop her head made his heart stir. She'll wonders if the owners truly appreciate such items as much as Lily did. He closes his eyes, remembering their kiss, his lips tingling from the mere thought of it.
"Breakfast is early this morning," Brick mumbles groggily pulling himself out of bed. "We should probably hurry up."
Brick's bed is directly across from Shell's. It's a pretty large room, large enough to fit six beds, two dressers, and one closet. There's also some storage space in an adjoining room but, since campers in general don't have need for the excessive materials of man, the extra space isn't really used.
Shell and Brick share the cabin with three other boys: Teal, Oak, and Horizon. The three of them, all a few years younger than Brick, around thirteen years old, are pretty much inseparable. She'll imagines he must be at least four or five years older than the boys, around seventeen or eighteen, from what he can tell of his reflection. When they found him on the streets, he didn't have an ID, and age seems less and less important at the camp.
Shell nods to Brick in acknowledgement. He knows he should probably get going. Today is trading day and Mason likes to leave right on time. While Brick grabs some fresh clothes and toiletries and heads out to the bathroom to
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shower, and Teal, Oak, and Horizon remain in bed, relishing the last few minutes of sleep, She'll grabs the folded pieces of paper from under his pillow, his head fuzzing over with questions'. He knows that he did a spell last night, but he has no idea why. How does he even know about magic?
He presses his eyes shut, concentrating on the pieces of paper, pressing them into his palms to feel the grains. And then he remembers something else from his dream, something on Lily's neck. It was a mole or beauty mark of some sort in the shape of an X.
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Shell
Several of the campers--including Shell, Brick, Lily, Clay, and Daisy--pile into the back seat of the camp car, while Mason and Rain take the front. Mason is driving. They're headed to the trading field. Every month or so, like-minded peace groups come together to trade their food, wares, and services. It's like a giant flea market except there's no money involved, since money is considered to be one of 89
man's greatest sins--the source of greed, only to be used when absolutely necessary
"That was quite a night we all had," Lily giggles, looking over at Shell. Shell smiles slightly, catching the attention of Clay, and looks away.
"It was a great night," Clay clarifies. "Quick, easy . . . we all came together as a group."
"Let's not forget Shell," Lily chirps.
"Of course," Clay agrees. "Shell showed bravery and openness. We should all be as courageous."
"Indeed," Mason says, nodding to Shell in the rearview mirror. "I heard all about the night's success."
Lily giggles again, causing Mason's brow to rumple in confusion. Shell glances at her, wondering about his dream, if beneath her knitted scarf there really is a mark on her neck in the form of an X.
He, too, is wearing a scarf. Underneath his coat, Shell wears the wool scarf Lily made him take last night. He smiles at her, wondering if she can sense that he wears it, but then wondering why she would.
"Will you be trading the platinum necklace?" Brick asks Clay. "I can't imagine what someone would give for it."
"What necklace?" Clay asks.
"The platinum heart one from las
t night," Brick explains. "The one in the velvet case . . in the woman's jewelry box."
"I didn't take it," Clay says. "It had the woman's initials engraved on the charm--much harder to trade that way . . I also thought it might be sentimental." 90
Mason watches Clay from the rearview mirror, taking everything in. A good decision," he says, finally, reaching across the seat to clasp Rain's hand. "Taking without first considering the sentimental value an object has to its owner is defeating the purpose of what we're trying to do."
"Which is giving people the opportunity to give," Daisy chimes in. She rests her head on Brick's shoulder, her orangy corkscrew ringlets hanging slightly in her face.
"Very good," Mason tells her.
They drive the rest of the way in silence, Shell feeling quite relieved that he didn't take the pocket watch from the old couple's place, since it too is undoubtedly sentimental. But he's still not completely clear on the camp's whole taking philosophy What gives them the right to decide the worth of somebody else's possessions? It just doesn't make sense to him.
He lets out a sigh and looks out the window as they pass by the Bargo Tower. They enter a town called Dalmouth, which already seems more up-and-coming than Brutus. Shell continues to take note of his surroundings. There's a windmill in the center of Dalmouth, as well as a strip of shops--Beach Blanket Bagel; Cape Chowdah; Fricken Frappe, an ice cream place; and Tidewater Treats, a candy store. The streets are all paved with brick instead of asphalt. The town's quaintness leaves him with a nostalgic feeling, like maybe he's been here before.
They drive for several more minutes, well past the center, where it's starting to look more vacant. There's a long stretch of open fields on both sides of them--conservation 91
land, maybe. They turn down a few more streets, finally reaching the trading field, which is almost filled up.
There are four long rows of traders. They've spread cardboard and blankets over the frozen ground to display their trinkets and announce their services. Shell and the campers work on setting up their space. Lily is trading her services of hair braiding and neck massaging, while Mason and Rain trade jewelry trinkets acquired from their nightly taking quests, and Daisy trades sweaters, coats, and any leftover household items that couldn't be hawked in a pawn shop.