Rhymes With Witches (5 page)

“I'm going to a party Friday night.
With the Bitches.
Isn't that insane?”

“Whoa,” Phil said. “Hold on there, filly.”

“I know. It's crazy. Unless it's a joke—do you think it's a joke?”

Because that was the angle Alicia had taken, after I failed to be suitably cowed by the Bitchcraft theory. I'd told her about Kyle's party, and she'd shifted tactics, saying, “But what if it's one of those ‘ugly' parties, where whoever brings the ugliest date wins?” She bit at a cuticle. “You're not seriously going to go, are you?”

Phil's voice pulled me back. “I hope you're planning on filling me in, because I have zero clue what you're talking about.”

“Right. Sorry.” I rolled onto my side, switching the phone to my unsquished ear. I told him everything except for Rae's
mumbo-jumbo, then said, “But why would they pick me? That's the part that makes no sense. Unless I'm their ugly date. Am I? Am I their ugly date?”

“Geez, Janie, are you blind?” Phil said. “You're so beautiful, you make my teeth ache.”

“Be serious. I'm, like, socially retarded. Especially compared to Keisha and Bitsy and Mary Bryan.”

He fell silent. He was probably getting a hard-on thinking about them, which was surprisingly depressing. Even though I knew Phil was a boy, and all boys liked the Bitches, I was used to him liking only me.

“Keisha and Bitsy are way beyond hot,” he finally said, “and I'd be lying if I said I'd throw them out of my bed. And Mary Bryan's an absolute sweetheart. She's got French at the same time as I have geometry, and our rooms are right across from each other. Sometimes I catch myself just … watching for her, you know?”

I nodded. For some dumb reason I was afraid I was going to cry.

“But none of them holds a candle to you, Janie. Want to know why?”

“Why?”

“Because you're a good person,” he said. “Because you try to do the right thing.”

“I do? Like when?”

“Come on, don't be so hard on yourself.”

I wanted to ask again, because I really wanted to know. But even with Phil, I couldn't be that pathetic.

“I should go,” I said. “I should make myself go to bed.”

“Yeah, me too. See you tomorrow?”

“Uh-huh. I'll be the one rescuing kitty cats and saving the world.”

“Super Janie,” he said. “You could wear a T-shirt with a big red J.”

“A leotard, like Wonder Woman. With huge red undies.”

He laughed, and I pressed the off button on my phone.

In bed, as shadows played on my walls, my thoughts spiraled back to Rae's story about four girls who would do anything to be popular. Silly, stupid story—yet in the dark, even stupid stories misbehaved.

I remembered something Mom told me once, about two girls in her hometown. They'd snuck to a cemetery late at night, because they'd heard that if you stuck a knife into a fresh-laid grave, its ghost would rise from the dead. One of the girls knelt on the grave and plunged the knife deep. She tried to stand up, but she couldn't, and she screamed that the ghost had grabbed her. The other girl fled, and when she returned with her parents, she found her friend collapsed over the grave, no longer breathing. She'd stabbed her nightgown when she'd stabbed the grave, pinning herself to the ground. Her panic overcame her, which meant she'd basically died of fright.

Although, come on. As I replayed the story in my head, I realized that it couldn't have really happened. What teenager has ever
died of fright? It was just a story Mom passed on after hearing it from a friend, from someone whose brother's cousin's fiancé had actually known the two girls. Or whatever. It was a story Mom told me for fun, to make goose bumps prick my arms.

But stories couldn't hurt you.

I imagined four girls giggling as they made their way to Crestview's empty storage room, the beams of their flashlights skittering off the walls.

And then, at some point, the giggling would have stopped.

I dreamed of cats, of sharp claws tapping through darkened halls.

Wednesday was a waste. Thursday was a bigger waste. In the daylight hours Rae's story faded to just a whisper, but the fact of the Bitches remained, making me hyperaware of everything I did. How I held myself, how I talked, how I laughed. And all because of the remote possibility that one of the Bitches might be around to notice.

“Could you give it a rest?” Alicia said during study hall. She'd been leaning forward, obsessing out loud about her latest cheerleading drama, but now she flung herself back in her chair. “They're not here, Jane.”

“Who's not here?” I asked. When she didn't buy it, I said, “I was listening. I was. You said that for the tryout, you have to be able to do a split or you're eliminated.”

“I said you
don't
have to do a split. You can just squat if you
have to, which you would have known if you weren't so busy acting dramatic.” She widened her eyes and gave a fake gasp. She drew her hand to her chest.
“A split?”
she mimicked.
“You have to do a split?!”

I felt myself blush. I glanced around, praying the Bitches really weren't here.

“God,” Alicia said. “You're embarrassing yourself and you don't even know it.”

I twisted the metal wire of my spiral notebook, because I
did
know it. Other people acted natural in group situations, no problem. But not me. Especially when there was a chance someone might see.

Alicia gathered her books and shoved them into her backpack. “Stupid me, I thought you actually cared about my boring, pathetic life.”

“I do,” I protested.

“Uh-huh.” She glared. “Well, all I can say is that if you do become popular, you have to take me with you. Swear?”

I groaned. “I thought you said to stay clear of them. I thought you said they were evil.” I made spooky fingers, which she swatted away.

“I did, and they are,” she said. “Do you swear?”

This was so like Alicia, to warn me away from something—saying it was for my own good—and then want that very thing if there was a chance it might really come through. Would I take Alicia, if given the opportunity? Would she take me if the situation
were reversed? It sounded so stupid,
you have to take me with you.
As if it were a prison break.

“Oh my god,” Alicia said, and I realized I'd taken too long with my answer.

“I swear, I swear,” I said.

“I'm leaving. You've given me a headache.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“Yeah?” she said. “You should be.”

Didn't see the Bitches in the hall. Didn't see the Bitches in the bathroom. Didn't see the Bitches in the library, where I ate lunch in order to avoid pissy Alicia.

I did, however, see Camilla Jones. Camilla was a freshman, like me and Alicia, although she often forgot to act like it. She read battered textbooks on post-modernism, for example, and she used words like “socio-economic” even when teachers weren't around. Today she wore a dusty rose leotard and a wrap-around skirt, and she'd secured her bun with serviceable brown bobby pins. She always wore her hair in a bun, because she was really serious about ballet. Ballet and weird literature theory shit, those were Camilla's things.

Looking at Camilla, what occurred to me was,
Huh. She's not obsessed with the Bitches.
This was a new thought, and I tested it in my mind to see if it held up. At lunch, Camilla usually sat with the drama kids, although she invariably kept her nose buried in one
of her books. Did she get all twittery when the Bitches entered the cafeteria? I didn't think so. I didn't think Camilla got twittery, period. And I couldn't remember her ever complimenting one of the Bitches or getting tongue-tied around them or gazing at them surreptitiously from across the room.

No. I was sure she didn't. Which meant that Rae was a big juicy freak, as of course I'd known all along.

I crumpled my granola bar wrapper and stood up. I walked over to Camilla's carrel.

“Hey,” I said. I didn't really know why.

She lifted her head. She seemed surprised that anyone was talking to her.

“Um … what are you reading?” I asked.

She flipped her book so I could see. It was called
Artifacts of Popular Culture
.

“Huh. Is it any good?”

“It's all right,” she said. She paused, then added, “Did you know that Barbie dolls can grasp wine glasses, but not pens?”

“Pens? You mean, like to write with?”

“And Astronaut Barbie's spacesuit is pink, with puffed sleeves.”

Her disgust was apparent, so instead of saying, “Well, that's to make her look cute,” I kind of laughed and said, “Yeah, that's definitely what I'd wear if I were an astronaut. Well … see you!”

I left, and my brain spun back to the Bitches. Maybe Camilla
was impervious to their charms, but I wasn't, especially after they'd lavished me with one-on-one attention. Why had they treated me that way only to leave me in the cold?

See?
I told myself.
It was a joke. They were stringing you along for their own amusement, and now they're done. What were you thinking—that your life was honestly going to change?

Then I came back with,
But who said anything about hanging out together at school? Not Keisha. Not Bitsy. Not Mary Bryan. Maybe the hanging-out part comes later, after you pass the test.

And then my stomach got spazzy and I had a panic attack right there in the hall. Kyle's party was only a day away, and what if the Bitches didn't arrive to pick me up? What if they
did
?

During my humanities elective on early religions, as Lurl the Pearl tried to explain parthenogenesis to Bob Foskin for the hundredth time, I claimed a vacant research computer and spread out my notes so that it would look like I was working on the day's assignment. The Camilla factor had punched a hole in Rae's “powers from beyond” theory, but I thought I'd Google the Bitches and see what came up. Even though I knew it would be nothing.