The Hawkweed Prophecy (23 page)

Poppy's mind was reeling and so she didn't notice the group of kids approaching. They were middle-schoolers, a mixed bunch. Some looked way off puberty, small and childish. Others were big and spotty, the potent cocktail of hormones bursting through their skin. And there were lots of them, filling the narrow passageway between the shelves of books.

“It's her,” Poppy heard one of them say.

“Told you,” said another.

She looked up and glared at them. She could hear the gasps. Her face still purple and stitched had been the cause of many
stares and whispers since she'd returned back to school. Suddenly a small hand darted out and snatched the book.

“Give that back,” Poppy demanded as calmly as she could.

“Or what?” challenged a bratty-looking boy.

“Or you'll be very sorry,” Poppy said quietly.

“What you going to do?” another boy whined. “Set the rats on us?”

They all laughed.

Poppy leapt up and swung for the book, but they were too quick for her, passing it from hand to hand so it was always just out of her reach in a game designed to taunt her. Poppy's eyes narrowed. “Give . . . it . . . back.” Her heart was beating in her chest, the rhythm getting faster and faster. She could feel the pulse in her neck quickening too.

She took a long, deep breath and then, just when she began to feel more in control, one of the girls piped up, “Your boyfriend's a hobo.”

“Yeah, he's gross,” added another.

“He's probably a junkie.”

“Ought to be put away.”

“Ought to be put down.”

The kids laughed again, their faces contorting in depraved delight.

Poppy lunged for the book and was again defeated. They laughed louder and louder, some bent double from the hilarity. A spell to bring water flashed into Poppy's mind and suddenly all the kids began to pee themselves.

“Urghh!” cried one, staring at her friend. “She's gone and wet herself.”

Then they all looked down at their crotches to see the warm, wet patches expanding. Now their eyes turned scared.

“Do I have your attention?” Poppy asked in a tone she recognized from her teachers. They stared at her mutely. “Now give me the book back and we can all go our separate ways.”

The kids glanced at one another, seeking out consensus.

“No,” said the most belligerent and bullish of the boys. He grabbed the book and held it tight in both hands.

“Give it back!” Poppy screeched, and with her words the book began to smoke, then burn, and the boy dropped it with a scream, staring at his blistering hands in horror.

The kids started to back away just as the books from the shelves came flying. Like a flock of birds, the books took to the air, their covers flapping like wings, beating so hard that some of the pages fell like feathers. At the sight of this, the kids began barging past one another to get down the corridor, their arms trying to protect their heads from the glancing blows of the books. One had a bloody nose, another a black eye. Only a couple escaped without a wound. Then, as the last of them turned the corner at the end of the row, the shelves came crashing to the ground in a final, thunderous boom.

Slowly Poppy bent down and picked up her book from the debris, putting it safely into her bag. Across the room the librarian stood stock-still.

“Those middle-schoolers,” said Poppy, shaking her head. “No respect for literature.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-T
HREE

T
hat wasn't the end of it. Parents phoned and wrote in, complaining of bullying and describing an attack in the school library. Poppy was quickly pinpointed, her battered face and white slick of hair immediately identifying her.

“But books can't fly,” she told Mr. Jeffries as she sat before him. “That's ridiculous!”

“Indeed,” he muttered. “I was hoping you might offer an explanation.”

Poppy looked stumped. “I can't.”

“Many of the children have displayed injuries. One even has minor burns on his hands.” Mr. Jeffries consulted a report. “One Simon Turner.”

“I don't like to say . . .” said Poppy.

“Go on,” encouraged Mr. Jeffries.

“Well, could they have hurt one another? Even accidentally. Pushing down those shelves like that. Running in the library. Throwing books.”

Mr. Jeffries pushed his glasses firmly up his nose. “You're saying they vandalized the library?”

“Well, of course. It could hardly have been me. I'm not that strong. I mean, look at me.”

Mr. Jeffries did look at her. He stared long and hard, letting Poppy bear the weight of his gaze. Then he exhaled noisily through his nostrils. “I'm not partial to mysteries, Miss Hooper. Not partial at all.” The principal shuffled some papers on his desk, tapping them into a neat pile, and Poppy hoped this small restoration of order might signal the end of the meeting but discovered it was merely a pause. “So, Miss Hooper, what do you have to say for yourself?” Poppy looked down at her hands. “Well then, if you can't shed some light on the situation, perhaps your father can?”

Poppy's eyes shot up to see Mr. Jeffries's hand reaching for the telephone. She didn't care what her dad thought anymore, but she had been hoping to avoid involving him. He had been so irate about her refusal to speak to the police that the thought of yet another standoff felt exhausting. She stared hard into Mr. Jeffries's eyes—they were angry, frustrated, brown, no, not just brown, black pupils encircled with chestnut, ringed with a darker shade, the whites bloodshot and tired.

“I wouldn't bother, if I were you.” She hadn't meant to speak, but the thoughts had come out of her mouth of their own accord. “He's too busy with his mistress and his child, the secret sibling I just found out about.” Now Poppy had started, it seemed she couldn't stop. “So if you want to expel me, go ahead. I'm used to it.”

Mr. Jeffries blinked, and it was then Poppy realized something strange was happening. His hand was still hovering over the telephone.

“Don't call him,” she said tentatively, and she watched as Mr. Jeffries's hand returned to his lap. “You don't need to speak to anyone else about what happened in the library.”

Mr. Jeffries stared back at her.

“Yes?” Poppy checked. Mr. Jeffries nodded. “It was just some middle-schoolers messing around. No one needs to be punished.”

Mr. Jeffries's eyes looked blank.

“Okay?” Poppy prompted.

Mr. Jeffries nodded again. Poppy wasn't sure what to do next. She got to her feet, then racked her brains to remember a hypnotist that she'd once seen on television.

“I'm going to go now,” she said authoritatively. “When I leave the room, you will wake up and go happily about your day.”

Poppy wasn't sure why she said “happily,” but it was too late to change it. She walked to the door, started to open it, then stopped and turned back to Mr. Jeffries.

“Bye, I guess. Oh, and you won't remember anything about this conversation.”

She shut the door behind her and waited for a moment, wishing she could peek back inside. She couldn't hear anything until suddenly the telephone rang and the shrill of it made her jump. It rang and rang and Poppy started to worry until finally she heard Mr. Jeffries's voice say “Good morning” in a far cheerier tone than he was commonly known for.

Halloween in this town was limp and drab. By the time Poppy made her way home through town, the younger kids had done their trick-or-treating, most dressed in the same pumpkin or vampire outfits from the local supermarket. They were trailing home through the drizzle, picking candy out of their teeth, looking through the wrappers in their buckets for any missed treat. Here and there a few taller older skeletons and Draculas prowled, ringing on the odd doorbell just for the heck of it.

It irritated Poppy, this lack of imagination and flair. In the last place she had lived, the houses had been decked out like film sets, with gravestones in their front gardens and cobwebs coating the doors, scary mechanical voices shrieking and cackling, and pumpkins carved with great artistry and finesse. Here, even the shop windows could hardly be bothered to try to cash in on the occasion. Poppy knew she was being contrary. She'd always scorned all the effort before, but now that it was gone, she missed it. A few hours earlier she had looked the part at least. The white stripe in her hair and her bruises looked like a costume. But throughout the day they had faded. Poppy presumed the magic she used on Mr. Jeffries had somehow accelerated the healing. Now she just looked plain and ordinary, with not a hint of Halloween about her.

Poppy felt the frustration begin to claw its way out of her. She had just brainwashed another human being, and yet no one would ever know. She wanted to go up to the next ghoul and denounce them as some pathetic pretender. She wanted to whip off the next black witch's hat and shout out to all of them that she was the real deal. She wouldn't, though. She couldn't tell them, just as she couldn't stride into Ember's coven and introduce herself either.
Both were too petrifying a prospect. Suddenly Poppy felt sick of her own cowardly company. She longed for someone she could talk to, someone who would understand, so she stopped, just for a minute or two, outside the pharmacy where Leo had told her he'd first set eyes on her.

She searched for him, all around, in the costumes, through the masks. And then she saw his face, undisguised like her own, watching from a doorway. Poppy turned and walked the other way.

She knew, of course, he'd walk after her, that he'd catch up with her and pull her arm to stop her. She didn't know, though, that she would be so angry. She hadn't realized it was a fight she had wanted all along.

“Leave me alone,” she hissed.

Leo let go of her arm and immediately she wanted it back there, hurting her.

“You were looking for me.” He sounded angry too.

“Don't talk to me.”

“Don't pretend. I saw you . . . you were looking for me.”

Poppy stared into his eyes, so dark they were frightening. He put his hands on her shoulders, then her arms. “Don't touch me,” she whispered.

She saw the uncertainty in his face and wished it away. Then his hands were in her hair, cupping her head. He was about to kiss her. She thought of Ember and it hurt so badly.

“I hate you.” She said it and then ran.

Poppy's father came in the door around ten in the evening and Poppy didn't ask where he'd been. She could guess, but even so, it would sting to hear about his Halloween evening with his son.

“You don't have to come back, you know,” was all she said.

He just grunted and grabbed himself a beer from the fridge.

Her dad was watching a scary movie when the gang of kids arrived so that, at first, Poppy thought the blood-curdling screams were from the television. Then there was laughter, the sound of a trash can being knocked over, more screaming, and Poppy's name being called, over and over.

“Poppy Whoo-whoo-hoo-per!” Like a ghost.

“What the? . . .” muttered her dad and he went to the window and opened the curtains.

Out on the street they stood, all in masks—devils and Frankensteins, warlocks and werewolves, witches and zombies, ghouls and grim reapers. Poppy saw her dad's face harden. He looked at her but didn't say anything. Instead, he strode to the front door and opened it.

“
Trick . . . trick . . . trick . . . trick . . . trick . . .
” came the chants.

“Get lost, you hear me?”

“
Trick . . . trick . . . trick . . . trick . . . trick . . .
” they continued ceaselessly.

“Right, that's it. I'm calling the police.” He slammed the door and looked at Poppy. “Who the hell are they?”

“They're wearing masks.”

“I can see that, Poppy. Who are they?”

Poppy swallowed. The chanting carried on, getting louder and louder.

“I don't know. Could be any of them.”

Poppy's father shook his head despairingly. “Can I get the police involved now?”

“Just ignore them. They'll stop eventually.”

Her father said he'd give them fifteen minutes. He and Poppy sat next to each other on the sofa, the television on mute, listening to the noise from outside, hearing the neighbors shouting and swearing at the unruly trick-or-treaters. Poppy shut her eyes and willed the gang to stop.
I can do this
, she told herself.
I can hypnotize people. I can make books fly. I can summon rats. Make fire. Start a storm. I have the power.

Then, suddenly, the window smashed behind her and she was the one screaming and her dad was clutching hold of her as she cried.

That night Poppy stayed at Donna's house. Donna came to the door in her nightgown, looking far more ordinary than Poppy remembered. She told Poppy to be quiet so as not to wake Logan.
So that is his name
, thought Poppy. As she crept into the kitchen, she noticed traces of her father there. His newspaper on the table, a pair of his shoes in the corner, a tie slung over a chair. It felt like this was his real life, his time with her just pretend.

The house was small and Poppy slept on the sofa. In the morning she woke to Logan poking her in the side.

“Who are you?” he said in a voice husky with sleep.

“I'm Poppy,” she said.

“Did you sleep over?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Cool,” he replied, and his serious little face broke into a big grin.

“Is . . . is your dad here?” Poppy asked, squirming at the awkwardness.

“He's gone to work. He doesn't live here much.”

Poppy pulled her legs off the sofa and sat up. “I'm sorry about that,” she mumbled.

“Not your fault,” he said so simply that it made her want to cry.

Poppy sat at the table with them, the three of them eating from matching bowls of cereal. It had been a long time since she'd eaten breakfast with anyone.

“Do you want to see some magic?” Logan suddenly piped up.

“Okay, sure,” said Poppy.

“Quickly now, Logan. You've got school to get to,” reminded Donna.

Logan rushed to the other room and came back with a pack of cards. He held them open to show Poppy, then put them in a neatish pile on the table, wiping aside some spilled milk with his hand. He got Poppy to cut them and turn them over, then do it again.