Spell Fire (3 page)

Sure enough, the green hybrid had stopped, and its driver motioned to Dad. Wild-eyed, Dad waited for the traffic to crawl forward enough so he could wedge in behind the truck. Mom and I waved to the driver of the green car.

I released the breath I had been holding and called out, "Thanks!"

Dad glared at me from the rearview mirror. The sick feeling in my stomach worsened. Mom twisted the hem of her jacket.

I texted Rayne and Jazmin, even though Jazmin was probably already rehearsing.
Freeway snarl. Cars aren't moving. My dad is going to get us killed.

Rayne texted back:
Get here ASAP!

I replied:
Trying!

Ten more minutes passed before we reached the crowded off-ramp. I envisioned my A in Drama circling down the toilet. Since the rain had stopped, I pulled off my clunky rubber rain boots and changed into the low leather boots I had stuffed into my backpack.

Silence permeated the car. Dad's white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel and his acid glances at Mom warned his road rage hadn't dissipated. Mom kept her head angled away from him and her gaze locked on the view out the passenger door window.

Twelve tense minutes later, Dad pulled into the minuscule parking lot above the Performing Arts building. Only teachers and the disabled were allowed to park there. Guess Dad wanted to save me the ten-minute walk from the main parking lot.

"Text me with a half-hour warning." Mom's voice sounded thick, like she was holding back tears.

"I'll try. But it's hard to gauge when Tanaka will release us." I kept my chin down, avoiding the unspent fury emanating from Dad, and escaped. I sprinted down the slippery slope to the PA building. Jazmin's guitar solo blasted through the side door as I slipped inside. I jogged past the loud dressing room and flung open the auditorium door as Jazmin ended with a rock star leap. The curtain should have descended, but it didn't. Rayne's voice carried from backstage, "Where are the dancers? Someone find them!"

"Lower the curtain!" Mister Tanaka yelled from the darkened auditorium. "And find Ainslie!"

"Here, sir! Accident on the freeway, sorry I'm late."

Jazmin threw me a quizzical look as she and the rest of the band carried their instruments offstage. None of my crew arrived to break down the drums. Maybe they were off locating the dancers.

"It's about time, Miss Avalon-Bennett."

I ignored Mister Tanaka and raced up the stairs —
left, right, left,
stage
— and located Rayne in the wings.

"Finally!" Rayne handed me a walkie-talkie. "The stage hands, most of the actors, and several of the dancers are stuck on the freeway. We're already a half-hour behind schedule."

"Are the soloists here?"

"Yes." Rayne blinked at me. "Right. They can rehearse."

"Get them. I'll set up the microphone." I pressed the talk button on my walkie-talkie. "Mission Control, I need a spotlight. We're going with the soloists."

"Yes, ma'am," said Trina, the Light Board Commander.

"Let's get this shuttle back on course." With a yank on the pull cord, I sent the curtain unfurling to the stage.

Chapter Three

Jazmin led the revolt. "I can't be here on Sunday." She gave Mister Tanaka her patented head wag. Rehearsal had crept past eight o'clock. Three hours had evaporated since she had consumed my last protein bar, and I could tell her hypoglycemia threatened like a fast-moving storm. "I know
my
part." Jazmin flipped her hair extensions over her shoulder and glared at the actors and dancers.

"I'm busy tomorrow," a girl in a grey leotard and pink wrap skirt said.

"All day?" Mister Tanaka asked.

The dancer nodded. "Religious reasons." Several other students proclaimed pressing church and family obligations.

Mister Tanaka crossed his arms over his stocky chest. "Fine. We'll resume after school on Monday. Meanwhile, everyone learn your lines and choreography!"

My cell phone beeped, signaling an incoming text from Mom.
I'm in the main parking lot.

I texted back:
Be there soon.

I waited while Jazmin stowed her guitar in its case and zipped up her black leather jacket. The only spot of color in her ebony Bad Girl Rocker outfit was the aqua infinity scarf she had looped around her neck and the silver sparkles on her pants. It was a calculated risk, walking with her when she was hungry, but I was more afraid of the dark path than I was of Jazmin's hypoglycemic rage.

Outside, I drew in a lung-freezing draught of night air and wound my cashmere scarf more tightly around my throat. Thick mist wrapped around us. So far autumn had been an endless chain of rain and fog. I missed clear nights when I could study the moon and stars, and my anxiety and OCD would slip away.

"Holy moly." I shivered. "I can feel my hair frizz."

"You are such a California girl." A sneer edged Jazmin's voice. I brushed it off, knowing it was the low blood sugar talking. "In New York, we'd have several feet of snow by now." Jazmin exhaled tiny white clouds while she sang, "It's beginning to look a lot like Kwanzaa."

"And Christmas and Hanukkah…" I added. We clomped across the dewy wooden bridge, then stepped onto the concrete path. I pulled my oversized leather purse in front of me like a shield. "You'd think with all the money our parents pay in private tuition—"

"The school could install more lights."

Stung, I lowered my chin, hunkering into my scarf.

"Sorry," Jazmin said. "But you say the same thing every night."

Funny. She didn't sound sorry.

"Because it's true." Fear bumps prickled my forearms beneath my three layers of clothing. I glanced to the open land on my left, almost indiscernible in the dark. Anything could be lurking out there. A rabid coyote could slink out of the oak-studded hills and bite us. A rapist or mugger could leap out and—

"You're doing it again, aren't you?"

"What?" I asked.

Jazmin switched her guitar case from her right hand to her left. "You're imagining worst-case scenarios."

"I am not." We reached the point where the path tilted at a dangerous angle. Someday, someone's wheelchair would tip over. Mark my words.

Jazmin halted beneath the second of three walkway lights spread over the half-mile trek and bugged her eyes at me.

"Okay. Maybe sometimes. How did you guess?"

"Easy." Jazmin hefted her guitar case. "Whenever you aren't talking, you are worrying. How are you going to make it through W.S.C.?"

I hugged my torso. "Crap, Jaz, don't hold back." I didn't know how I'd survive the wilderness survival challenge next year. I couldn't graduate without completing the three-week course. I had zero camping experience, and given my anxiety and OCD, I was pretty sure I would suck at either of the location choices — the Mojave Desert or the Sierra Nevada foothills. Maybe the administration would buck seventy-five years of school tradition and change the rule. Or maybe I'd be mentally sound by then.

"I'm not knocking you." Jazmin linked her arm through mine. "I just want you to stop tormenting yourself."

"You sound like my parents." We were almost to the parking lot. I spotted Mom's car beneath a streetlight.

"How are your parents?"

I shook my head. "Still at it. The suspense is killing me."

"Do you think they'll divorce?"

"It's a distinct possibility. I wish I could see into the future."

"You couldn't control it, so what would be the point?" Jazmin asked.

Mom's impatient stare tunneled through the Mercedes's windshield. I wondered how the ride home with Dad had gone. "But at least I could prepare myself."

"Will they still be able to afford to send you here?"

I halted. "Great. The one repercussion I hadn't thought of."

"I'm sorry!" Jazmin set down her guitar and gave me a bone-breaking hug. "Everything will work out. You'll see."

"Liar."

"At least you don't have to push your dad around in a wheelchair."

"True. How long will he be in a cast this time?"

"Not sure. He has to have surgery."

"Maybe he should give up skiing."

"Word." Jazmin's mom pulled up to the curb in the family's van. Jazmin opened the sliding door and stashed her guitar in the back. "See you Monday."

"Later."

Mom backed out of her parking space and pulled up to the curb as the van drove off. I exhaled a vapor cloud, then climbed in. Welcome warmth and safety enveloped me. As I buckled my seat belt, I noticed Aunt Terra's envelope sticking out of the side pocket of Mom's purse.

"What's new with Aunt Terra?"

"She and Esmun want us to come for a visit." Mom followed the Jacksons' van out of the parking lot.

"Props to your sister for trying. You'd think she'd be discouraged by all the times Dad made you refuse."

"Your father's clients are super conservative. He's afraid they'd get the wrong idea if we—" she released the steering wheel and made quotation marks in the air, "—'consorted with shamans and fortune tellers.'"

"Well, he
is
a financial planner. I can see his point."

Mom glared at me for so long, the car drifted across the lane divider bumps.

"Mom!"
Kill me for telling the truth.

Mouth tight, she guided the car back onto the proper side of the road. For the next forty minutes, she stared straight ahead, except during lane changes. Oppressive silence became a third entity in the car, proving Aunt Terra and Uncle Esmun weren't the only conjurers in the family.

* * * *

After church on Sunday, my parents kept to their separate wings on the third floor while I caught up on homework in my suite on the second floor. Jazmin and I had read that you learn better if you take a break every forty-five minutes and do something else, like move around. So at quarter to each hour, we texted each other. At two forty-five my cell phone beeped, right on schedule.
Signing out. Mom time. Nana Jackson is coming to "help" care for Dad post-op.

Meaning she will spoil your dad and undermine your mom, thus making for great holiday cheer?
I replied.

Exactly. Expecting a full house. Mom invited her brother and his family to come from NY.

Escape while you can!

Ha ha. Bye.

Nice knowing you.
I closed my phone and rolled over on my bed. It must be nice to have grandparents and cousins — at least, cousins your own age. Little kids gave me the heebie-jeebies. I stared at the ceiling with its glow-in-the-dark stars. Maybe my parents' troubles had started earlier than I thought. It could explain why I was an only child.

"Go, go, go!" Dad's shout migrated down the stairs. "Yes!"

Guess his football team is winning.
I imagined Mom holed up in her study, immersed in another online continuing education of the Bar course. Last month she had attended a legal conference in San Francisco, which had seemed odd, since she had stopped practicing law when I was three years old.
She's preparing to go back to work. Which means she's readying for divorce.

I rolled into a sitting position and fought the urge to wash my hands. My former therapist, the one Dad had fired after she had told him his actions contributed to my anxiety, had suggested I distract myself with counting. "Ten, nine, eight, seven, six… breathe." Anxiety drop-kicked me to my feet. "Five, four, three…" Stress sparked down my arms. My fingers twitched. "Two, one…"

I sprinted to the bathroom and used my elbows to swivel on the faucets. I jacked the soap dispenser up and down.
Pump, pump, pump, and wash.
Pump, pump, pump, and wash.
The citrus-scented foam bubbled between my fingers, stinging my dry, cracked skin. I brushed my tears with my forearm. I couldn't control my parents. I couldn't control my OCD.

I couldn't control anything.

Chapter Four

On Monday morning my parents' voices, low and feral, wafted up from the first floor. A familiar queasiness stabbed my stomach. I strained to extract their words from the murmur.
Is this it? Have they decided to divorce?
My meager hopes for a happy day vanished like a comet streaking across a raw winter sky.

I tiptoed across the three feet of hotel-grade carpeting that separated my bedroom doors from the white railing overlooking the first floor. My parents were in the kitchen. Together. Talking. The possible repercussions launched like missiles in my head. Someone might declare the marriage was over.
Then what?

Half of me wanted to hole up in my moonscape bedroom, stick in my ear buds, and pretend nothing was going down. The other half of me was like a looky-loo passing a pileup on the freeway; I had to see the carnage. I had to know everyone's fate. So I hefted my backpack and snuck down the main staircase.

An oily film of orange-scented furniture polish clung to my palm as my hand skimmed the oak banister.
Left, right, left, right, left,
landing.
My right spiked stiletto heel snagged on the sage Berber carpet and caused a small tearing noise. Wincing, I spied the half-open kitchen door on the floor below.

Left, right
… The corner of a textbook inside my backpack jabbed my shoulder. Reaching the bottom step —
left —
I jumped to the Persian rug in the entry.
Right.
I cut across it in three quick strides, then leapt to the dining room area rug. My ankles wobbled as my spiked heels sank into the dense pile. I skirted the chairs huddled around the gleaming oval table with its rare wood inlays. There was just enough room for me to teeter along the rug's floral border. Each pale woolen blossom brought me closer to the bitter coffee smells snaking through the kitchen doorway. I still couldn't process my parents' words. My eardrums threatened to burst.

My cell phone beeped. I froze, not breathing. My parents cut off their conversation mid-sentence and retreated into hostile silence.