Book of Shadows (12 page)

I backed Das Boot out of our driveway, two strawberry Pop-Tarts clenched between my teeth.

Once when Mary K. was little, she had done something bad, and my mom had sternly told her she was “in the doghouse.” She had heard “dollhouse,” and of course the whole thing made no sense to her. Now it’s what we always say.

“I was reading some stuff they didn’t want me to read,” I muttered casually, trying not to spew crumbs all over my dashboard.

Mary K.’s eyes opened wide. “Like pornography?” she asked excitedly. “Where’d you get it?”

“It wasn’t pornography,” I told her in exasperation. “It was no big deal. I don’t know why they’re so upset.”

“So what was it?” she persisted.

I rolled my eyes and shifted gears. “They were some books about Wicca,” I said. “Which is an ancient, woman-based religion that predates Judaism and Christianity.” I sounded like a textbook.

My sister thought about it for a few moments. “Well,
that’s
boring,” she said finally. “Why can’t you read porn or something fun that I could borrow?”

I laughed. “Maybe later.”

 

“You’re kidding,” Bree said, her eyes wide. “I don’t believe it.That’s awful.”

“It’s so stupid,” I said.“They said they want the books out of the house.” The bench where we sat outside school was chilly, and the October sunlight seemed to grow feebler by the day.

Robbie nodded sympathetically. His parents were much stricter Catholics than mine. I doubted he’d shared his interest in Wicca with them.

“You can keep them at my house,” Bree said. “My dad could care less.”

I zipped my parka up around my neck and burrowed into it. There were only a few minutes before class started, and our new, hybrid clique was gathered by the east door of school. I could see Tamara and Janice walking up to the building, their heads bent as they talked. I missed them. I hadn’t seen them much lately.

Cal was perched on the bench across from ours, sitting next to Beth. He was wearing ancient cowboy boots, worn down at the heels. He was quiet, not looking at us, but I felt sure he was listening to every word of our conversation.

“Screw them,” Raven said. “They can’t tell you what to read.This isn’t a police state.”

Bree snorted. “Yeah. Let me be there when you tell Sean and Mary Grace to go screw themselves.”

I couldn’t help smiling.

“They’re your parents,” Cal said, suddenly breaking his silence. “Of course you love them and want to respect their feelings. If I were you, I’d feel miserable, too.”

In that moment I fell deeper in love with Cal. On some level I guess I expected him to dismiss my parents as stupid and hysterical, the way everybody else had. Since he was the most ardent follower of Wicca, I expected my parents’ reaction to annoy him the most.

Bree looked at me, and I prayed my feelings weren’t written on my face. In fairy tales there’s always one person who is made for one other, and they find each other and live happily ever after. Cal was my person. I couldn’t imagine anyone more perfect. Yet what kind of sick fairy tale would it be if he was the one made exactly right for me and I wasn’t right for him?

“It’s a hard decision to make,” Cal continued. Our group was starting to listen to him like he was an apostle, teaching us. “I’m lucky because Wicca is my family’s religion.” He considered this for a moment, his hand on his cheek. “If I told my mom I wanted to become Catholic, she would totally freak out. I don’t know if I could do it.” He smiled at me.

Robbie and Beth laughed.

“Anyway,” Cal said, serious again, “everyone has to choose his or her own path.You need to decide what to do. I hope you still want to explore Wicca, Morgan. I think you have a gift for it. But I’ll understand if you can’t.”

The school door swung open with a bang, and Chris Holly walked out, followed by Trey Heywood.

“Oh,” Chris said loudly. “ ’Scuse me. Didn’t mean to interrupt you
witches
.”

“Piss off,” Raven said in a bored tone.

Chris ignored her. “Are you casting spells right here? Is that allowed on school grounds?”

“Chris, please,” said Bree, rubbing her temple. “Don’t do this.”

He turned on her. “You can’t tell me what to do,” he said. “You’re not my girlfriend. Right?”

“Right,” Bree said, looking at him angrily. “And this is one of the reasons why.”

“Yeah, well—,” Chris began, but was interrupted by the bell ringing and the appearance of Coach Ambrose striding up.

“Get to class, kids,” he said automatically, pulling open the doors. Chris shot Bree an ugly look, then followed the coach inside.

I picked up my backpack and headed for the door, followed by Robbie. Bree lingered behind, and I glanced back quickly to see her talking to Cal, her hand on his arm. Raven was watching them with narrowed eyes.

Dazed, I found my way to homeroom like a cow returning to the barn. My life seemed very complicated.

 

That afternoon I put my Wicca books in a paper bag and brought them to Bree’s house. She had promised I could come over and read them whenever I wanted.

“I’ll keep them safe for you,” she said.

“Thanks.” I pushed my hair over my shoulder and rested my head against her door. “Maybe I could come over tonight after dinner? I’m halfway through the history of witchcraft book, and it’s pretty fascinating.”

“Of course,” she said sympathetically. “Poor baby.” She patted my shoulder. “Look, just lie low for a while, let it all blow over. And you know you can come over and read or just hang out anytime. Okay?”

“Okay,” I said, giving her a hug. “How’s the thing with Cal going?” It hurt to ask, but I knew it was what she wanted to talk about.

Bree made a face. “Two days ago he was happy to talk for almost an hour on the phone, but yesterday I asked him to drive out to Wingott’s Farm with me and he turned me down. I’m going to have to start stalking him if he doesn’t give in pretty soon.”

“He’ll give in,” I predicted. “They always do.”

“True,” Bree agreed, her eyes wistful.

“Well, I’ll call you later,” I said, suddenly eager for this conversation to end.

“Hang in there, okay?” she called after me as I escaped.

 

The next week I made a point of hanging out more with Tamara, Janice, and Ben. I went to math club and tried really hard to care about functions, but I longed to be learning about Wicca and especially to be near Cal.

When I told my mom I had gotten rid of the books, she was faintly embarrassed but mostly relieved. For a moment I felt guilty for omitting the fact that the books were only at Bree’s house and I was still reading them in the evenings, but I chased the guilt away. I respected my parents, but I didn’t agree with them.

“Thanks,” she said quietly, and looked like she wanted to say more, but didn’t. Several times that week I caught her watching me, and the weird thing was, it reminded me of the creepy clerk at Practical Magick. She was watching me with an air of expectation, as if I were about to sprout horns or something.

All that week autumn moved in slowly, sweeping up the Hudson River into Widow’s Vale. The days were noticeably shorter, the wind brisker. There was a sense of anticipation all around me, in the leaves, the wind, the sunlight. I felt like something big was coming, but I didn’t know what.

On Saturday afternoon the phone rang while I was doing homework. Cal, I thought before I grabbed the upstairs extension.

“Hey,” he said, and the sound of his voice made me slightly breathless.

“Hey,” I replied.

“Are you coming to the circle tonight?” he asked straight out. “It’s going to be at Matt’s house.”

I had wrestled with this question for days. Granted, I was disobeying the spirit of my parents’ orders by reading my Wicca books, but actually going to another circle seemed like a much bigger deal. Learning about Wicca was one thing; practicing it was another.“I can’t,” I said finally, almost wanting to cry.

Cal was quiet for a minute. “I promise you everyone will keep their clothes on.” I could hear the humor in his voice, and I smiled. He paused again. “I promise I won’t carry you into the water,” he added so softly, I wasn’t sure I’d actually heard it. I didn’t know what to say. I could feel the blood racing through my arteries.

“Unless you want me to,” he added just as quietly.

Bree, your best friend, is in love with him, I reminded myself, needing to break the spell. She has a chance.You do not.

“It’s just that . . . I c-can’t,” I heard myself stammering weakly. I heard my mom moving around downstairs, and I went into my room and shut the door.

“Okay,” he said simply, and let the silence, an intimate kind of silence, spread between us. I lay on my bed, looking at the flame-colored tree leaves outside my window. I realized I would have given up the rest of my life to have Cal lying there with me right then. I closed my eyes, and tears started seeping out to run sideways down my cheeks.

“Maybe another time,” he said gently.

“Maybe,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. Maybe not, though, I thought in anguish.

“Morgan—”

“Yeah?”

Silence.

“Nothing. I’ll see you on Monday at school.We’ll miss you tonight.”

We’ll miss you. Not I’ll miss you.

“Thanks,” I said. I hung up the phone, turned my face into my pillow, and cried.

“You know, some kids actually get pregnant when they’re sixteen,” I muttered to Mary K. on Sunday afternoon. I couldn’t believe my life had come to this: sitting in the back of a school bus packed with a bunch of jolly, devout Catholics on our way to Killburn Abbey. “They have drug problems and total their parents’ cars. They flunk out of school. All I did was bring home a couple of
books
.”

I sighed and leaned my head against the bus window, torturing myself by wondering what had happened at the circle the night before.

If you’ve never spent an hour on a school bus with a bunch of grown-ups from your church, you have no idea how long an hour can be. My parents were sitting a few rows up, and they looked happy as pigs in mud, talking and laughing with their friends. Melinda Johnson, age five, got carsick, and we had to keep stopping to let her hang out the door.

“Here we are!” trilled Miss Hotchkiss at last, standing up in front as the bus lurched to a wheezy halt in front of what looked like a prison. Miss Hotchkiss is Father Hotchkiss’s sister and keeps house for him.

Mary K. looked suspiciously out the window. “Is this a jail?” she whispered. “Are we here to be scared straight or something?”

I groaned and followed the crowd as they tromped off the bus. Outside, the air was chill and damp, and thick gray clouds scudded across the sky. I smelled rain and realized no birds were chirping.

In front of us were tall cement walls, at least nine feet high. They were stained from years of weather and dirt and crisscrossed by clinging vines. Set into one wall was a pair of large black doors, with heavy riveted studs and massive hinges.

“Okay, everyone,” called Father Hotchkiss cheerfully. He strode up to the gate and rang the bell. In moments the door was answered by a woman wearing a name tag that said Karen Breems.

“Hello! You must be the group from St. Michael’s,” she said enthusiastically. “Welcome to Killburn Abbey. This is one of New York State’s oldest cloistered convents. No nuns live here anymore—Sister Clement died back in 1987. Now it’s a museum and a retreat center.”

We stepped through the gates into a plantless courtyard covered with fine gravel that crunched under our feet. I found myself smiling as I looked around but didn’t know why. Killburn Abbey was lifeless, gray, and lonely. But as I walked in, a deep, pervasive sense of calm came over me. My worries melted away in the face of its thick stone walls, bare courtyard, and caged windows.

“This feels like a prison,” said Mary K., wrinkling her nose. “Those poor nuns.”

“No, not a prison,” I said, looking at the small windows set high up on the walls. “A sanctuary.”

We saw the tiny stone cells where the nuns had slept on hard wooden cots covered with straw. There was a large, primitive kitchen with a huge oak worktable and enormous, battered pots and pans. If I squinted, I could see a black-robed nun, stirring herbs into boiling water, making medicinal teas for sisters who were ailing. A witch, I thought.

“The abbey was almost completely self-sufficient,” Ms. Breems said, waving us out of the kitchen through a narrow wooden door.We stepped outside into a walled garden, now overgrown, sad, and neglected.