Flynn just nodded curtly and went back to making some adjustments on the sound board, his hair falling in an artful diagonal across his forehead. As he worked the knobs, a large tattoo shifted and warped along the inside of his arm. It looked like some form of calligraphy.
Before I could engage him in conversation, Mr. Gallagher moved to the microphone and announced that auditions were about to begin. His stage manager began corralling everyone toward the stage.
“I better go,” Owen said.
“Break a leg,” I said.
Owen smiled and went off, and Flynn continued ignoring me, so I found a folding chair up front where I’d have a better view.
Michelle was one of the first called to the stage. She got paired with some guy from Macomber High who had a lisp and an acne problem. Together they read a scene between Reverend Parris and his niece, Abigail, in which Parris comes upon his niece and daughter dancing naked in the woods. When the town finds out about the naked dancing, they suspect witchcraft. The lispy kid was perfect as the squirrely preacher out to save his own reputation, and Michelle was deliciously evil as the beautiful yet conniving Abigail.
Owen got paired with Elise to read a scene between John Proctor and his wife, Elizabeth, in which Elizabeth accuses John of having an affair with Abigail. Elise’s angelic blond looks were well suited for the part of Elizabeth; she delivered the lines with just the right amount of self-righteous coolness. I had to admit, she and Owen had some real chemistry together onstage. For a moment, I saw Owen in a different light. Reading John Proctor’s lines, he was no longer my fun-loving, goofy friend, but a guy with real presence and charisma.
The next morning before classes began, Michelle and I rushed over to Exeter Hall, where Gallagher had posted the cast list. Michelle did a victory dance when she saw that she’d been cast as Abigail. As I’d expected, Owen had been cast as Proctor, and Elise got the part of Elizabeth. We celebrated that night with a
Project Runway
marathon and buttered popcorn.
Over the next few weeks, I didn’t see much of Michelle as she gave herself entirely to the play. I even saw her hanging out with Elise on occasion, running lines in the lounge or walking out of class together, chatting about a scene. Not only was this beyond weird given last year’s events, but it made me feel left out, like I’d somehow lost my best friend.
I wrote Gray a letter almost every day, even if it was just a few sentences to let him know I was still alive. I hadn’t gotten one back from him yet, but I knew he was busy. Instead of obsessing, I tried to throw myself into school, working on bio labs on photosynthesis and cell respiration, reading the first half of
The Hunchback of Notre-Dame,
and taking jogs through the woods behind campus.
I’d never been much of a runner, but I’d gone training with Gray a few times this summer and had kind of gotten addicted to the feeling. Those first few weeks of school, I needed to feel hard earth beneath my feet, to run until my calves throbbed just so I would feel a different kind of pain, something to assure me I could move forward without Gray by my side.
One gorgeous fall day in early October, I set off from the dorm on a run around campus. The first leg was all downhill as I passed Exeter and the dining hall and followed the path to the horse trails that skirted the stream and the woods. From there, I turned to slog up the hill toward Old Campus, past the chapel and the Commons Building. By the time I reached the dorms, I still hadn’t hit my stride, so I decided to do another circuit.
When I reached the horse trail for the second time, instead of feeling that fabled runner’s high, I felt only pain and breathlessness. I slowed my pace, hoping the stitch in my side would ease and my lungs would open up again, but it was no good. I stooped over to catch my breath.
As I walked it off, I wandered closer to the tree line that separated our campus from Braeburn Academy. A thick log bridge straddled the stream here. This was where Michelle and I had crossed to go to the Braeburn bonfire the night I’d been struck by lightning. The stream gurgled beneath the bridge, rippling over stones that had been shaped long ago by ancient glaciers. There was a feeling of timelessness to the spot, a sense that the rules of nature ceased to apply as soon as you crossed over.
I stepped onto the bridge now and crossed halfway, stopping to toss a pebble into the water. It sent ripples through the stream that radiated outward, leading my eye to something red on the opposite bank. A wild rosebush grew there, its branches overladen with blooms, some of them hanging so low they nearly touched the water. I made my way across to the other side and bent down to pluck a rose. Its fragrance was heady and rich and nearly overpowered my senses.
As I stuck the flower in my pocket, some strange force compelled me to move deeper into the woods. The forest was cooler here, protected by the canopy of trees, and the ground was covered in ferny overgrowth that cushioned my steps. I made my way through the brush, straying off the well-worn path and into more untamed wilderness, recalling the eerie history of this forest and imagining the spirits of the dead rising to haunt me.
The terrain became more rugged as I hiked uphill until I came to a clearing high above the stream, where piles of rock formed a lopsided pyramid. Clumps of scrubby trees grew haphazardly between them, forming a dense barrier.
Stepping closer, I spied something solid behind the choke of weeds. I knelt down and began scrabbling away at the vines and brambles until my palms pressed against something hard and cold. Like a fairy-tale heroine searching for a magic door, I felt my way across the ivy-covered slab until it gave way to an opening. Peering into the space, I immediately knew what I’d discovered. A witch cave.
Without thinking, I crept inside, just far enough to gauge its size. Maybe eight feet wide and ten feet long, at most. It was colder here in the cave and quieter, too, like the sounds of the forest had been swallowed up by the stone. Feeling a little claustrophobic, I shimmied out of the cave and investigated the area, finding two more caves, both of them nestled into the hillside behind thick foliage.
The caves were isolated and protected by natural camouflage, which must have been why Governor Danforth chose this place to hide the escaped witches. No one would find them here.
I wondered if there was any vestige of those witches now, some trace of their suffering that still lingered. This grim thought sent a panic through me, and suddenly I wanted to get out of the woods and back to the safe predictability of campus. But I couldn’t remember how I’d gotten here.
As quickly as I could move without losing my footing, I scrabbled down the hillside until I was back on flat ground, then tried retracing my steps. But everything looked unfamiliar and hostile. The trees overhead seemed to bear down on me now, their limbs swaying as if to grab me.
Feeling suffocated, I quickened my pace, convinced that some evil presence was following me, just as the Puritans had believed. Thorns and brambles scratched my arms and legs, but I ignored the pain, desperate to escape. Finally, I found the path that had been worn down by students traipsing between Lockwood and Braeburn. I knew where to go from here, and I covered the ground quickly.
Momentarily, I saw the rosebush flanking the log bridge.
Just a few more feet to go—just cross over, and you’re home free.
I flew across the log, trying not to think of the water whooshing beneath my feet. When I reached the other side, I sank to the ground in relief and laughed at myself. I had let my imagination get the best of me.
I took the rose out of my pocket just to convince myself it was real, startled to see that it had already withered and turned brown at the edges. My insides clenched as I thought of the fates that befell girls in fairy tales who took things they weren’t supposed to take.
C
HAPTER
4
B
ack in the safety of my room, I placed the sad and crumpled rose in a glass of water on my nightstand, hoping to revive it. Floating there in my room, the flower seemed like an enchanted rose, like the one trapped under glass in
Beauty and the Beast
. I still felt guilty, like I’d destroyed its beauty just by plucking it.
Feeling unnerved about the whole afternoon and the discovery of the witch caves, I took a long, hot shower, then turned on the hotpot to make myself some ramen noodles for dinner. I couldn’t bear the thought of going to the dining hall alone.
I was watching the dry cake of noodles fall apart under a stream of boiling water when my phone rang. I glanced down at the display and smiled.
“Hey, you,” I said, elated to hear Owen’s voice.
“What are you doing right this minute?” he said.
“Making ramen noodles.”
“So you’re busy, then.”
I laughed. “Terribly. Why? What’s up?”
“Some friends are taking me out for an impromptu birthday celebration.”
“I didn’t know it was your birthday!”
“Well, it was actually yesterday,” he said, “but I’m milking it for all it’s worth. So what do you say? Are you in?”
“Of course I’m in. Who else is going?”
“Just Flynn and Jess so far.”
“Jess?” I said.
“Jess Barrister. You know her, right? She goes to Lockwood.”
“I know her. I just didn’t know you did.”
“Yeah, she’s the drummer for our band.”
“Jess Barrister is the drummer for your band?” I said.
“Yeah. What’s so crazy about that?”
“I don’t know, everything! If you’d known her last year, you would understand.”
“Well, she’s really cool. I think you’ll like her.”
“Okay,” I said. “What about Michelle? Have you called her yet?”
There was a long pause. “She’s going home for the weekend, isn’t she?”
I hesitated a moment too long. “Oh yeah. I think she did say something about seeing Darlene. But I’m not sure. I barely see her anymore.”
He paused again, and I wondered if I’d just caught Michelle in a lie. “No, me neither,” he said. “So anyway, Flynn and I are coming to pick you guys up in an hour. Meet us in front of Easty.”
I hung up and tried to ignore the sick feeling in my stomach as I changed out of my pajamas and into a T-shirt, hoodie, and jeans. Around six o’clock, I went outside. Jess was already there waiting.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey.”
She handed me what was now her trademark symbol of goodwill: a Jolly Rancher. This one was watermelon flavored.
“Thanks,” I said. “Do you know where we’re going tonight?”
She twirled a strand of black hair through her fingers. “The Depot. It’s this warehouse—well, really a dance club where Flynn DJs. We’re gonna rehearse some songs, maybe get some Chinese food.”
And that’s how Jess, Flynn, Owen, and I ended up sitting on the floor of this shabby old warehouse/dance club on the old railway line. We passed around cartons of General Tso’s chicken and sweet-and-sour shrimp and talked about music. Flynn kept dropping names of all these indie bands we had never heard of and scoffing at the bands we liked.
“What about Radiohead?” Jess asked.
“Sellouts,” he said.
“How about Bob Dylan?” Owen asked.
“An incoherent hippie.”
“Man, you’re certifiable,” Owen said.
“What about Coldplay or Snow Patrol?” I asked.
“Corporate whores.”
I smirked. “So what you’re saying is, a band can’t be good if they actually sell their music?”
Owen and Jess laughed. “Once a band reaches a certain level of success,” Flynn said, “they become tools of the industry. They keep churning out the same bland, inoffensive crap year after year.”
“Hey, Flynn,” Jess said. “How many hipsters does it take to change a lightbulb?”
“I don’t know, how many?” he said, playing along.
“It’s a really obscure number. You’ve probably never heard of it.”
Owen howled with laughter, and Flynn just flipped his hair out of his eyes and scowled. I tried not to laugh, but it was hard not to.
After we finished eating, Jess and Flynn went up on the stage and started fooling around on the piano, Jess making up melodies and Flynn singing in exaggerated falsetto. I was thankful Owen and I had a few moments alone.
“So,” he said, giving me a sympathetic pout, “how are you handling the whole long-distance thing?”
“Not well,” I said. “I haven’t heard from Gray since he left.”
“Not even an e-mail?”
“No computers allowed. I’ve written him a few letters, but he doesn’t have time to write back. I’ve just been going on faith that he still remembers me.”
Owen rolled his eyes. “He more than remembers you, and you know it,” he said. “You guys are so lucky.”
“Why?”
“Because you found each other. I mean, I know there are lots of guys who want to hook up with a different girl every weekend, but that’s not me. I’d love to have what you guys have.”
“You have Michelle,” I said. But the moment I said it, I knew it wasn’t true. Not in the way Owen wanted it to be.
“Emma, you know Michelle,” he said. “As much as anyone can know her. She’s a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in thorns so you can’t try and unwrap her.”
“Are things that bad?”
He shrugged and pursed his lips. “I don’t know. At the beginning of the summer, things seemed okay, but then she started acting all distant and weird.”
I nodded sympathetically. This close up, I saw that Owen had a tiny indentation at the tip of his nose. A crease had formed above his brow, and one of his dimples was showing, not from a smile this time, but from a frown. All these small hollow places gave his face a vulnerable, puppy-dog look that made me want to hug him.
I hated seeing Owen unhappy. It seemed against nature somehow. And I hated that Michelle had cheated on him, and I couldn’t tell him about it. I felt like I was betraying them both.
“Hey,” Flynn interrupted, “when are you two lovebirds going to get off your asses and join us onstage?”
“May I remind you,” Owen said, “that Emma has a boyfriend? A big, buff Coast Guard boyfriend.”