Chasing the White Witch

chasing the white witch

a novel

marina cohen

To my brother, Rob, and my cousin, Lisa, who contributed to this novel without knowing it

Acknowledgements

I
would like to send a heartfelt thank you to the following people: to readers, Dr. David Jenkinson, Natalie Hyde, Jaime Cohen, Jane Ross, and 6R; to my husband, Michael Cohen, for all his love and support; to the Ontario Arts Council for their generous support via the Writer's Reserve program; to all the amazing staff at Dundurn Press, including president and publisher, Kirk Howard, associate publisher and editorial director, Michael Carroll, publicist, Karen McMullin, and my wonderful editor, Shannon Whibbs.

T
his
whole mess began when my fifteen-year-old brother, Jordan (who happens to be the biggest moron on the face of the earth), started bugging me about my first-ever zit. It didn't help that the thing was huge — okay, ginormous — and dead-centre on the tip of my nose. Even with a ton of concealer caked on my face, I felt like I should have been hauling a sleigh full of presents on a foggy winter's night instead of pushing a shopping cart through the Thanksgiving-weekend crowds at the Supersave.

“Head for cover! She's going to blow!” Jordan's voice echoed up the vegetable aisle, attracting scads of attention toward me and the glowing bump festering on my face. As if that wasn't bad enough, he then pretended to dive under the broccoli table, like my nose warranted some sort of code-red, lock-down measures. Honestly, after twelve-and-a-half years of teasing at the hands of my brother, a.k.a., El Doofus, you'd think I'd have grown a thicker skin.

“You're a funny guy, Jor,” I said, forcing a smile. I narrowed my eyes and fixed them on the watermelon stand at the far end of the aisle. “You should consider a career as a comedian.” I imagined a particularly deformed melon was Jordan's head. Then I pictured myself heaving it high in the air and sending it crashing onto the cold tile floor where it would explode into a wet pile of pinkish mush. A sliver of a grin tugged at my mouth.

“I can hear you,” said Jordan, materializing in front of the shopping cart. He scanned the air with great exaggeration. “But I can't see you behind the mountain in front of your nose. Oh wait a minute — that
is
your nose!
Eehah, eehah, eehah
.” He laughed like a drunken mule
.

Now, normally I tried my best not to let Jordan know he was getting to me, but from where I stood, the temptation was too great. My lip curled. I hunched my shoulders and dropped my chin. I tightened my grip on the shopping cart and was poised to plow him over like the insignificant dust-mite he was, when my mother emerged from behind, lugging a bag of yams. She stopped, sized up the situation, and rolled her eyes.

“Leave your sister alone, Jordan.”

“Wha'd
I
do?” He did his best to look innocent.

She shook her head and let the yams plunk into the cart. They rolled off the frozen turkey that could feed an entire village, and squashed the box containing pumpkin pie. “I should have known better than to think you two would be any help to me whatsoever.”

“I didn't do anything,” Jordan protested. “It's not my fault Claire's growing a second head.”

I glowered at him, but that amused him all the more. My mother offered me a look oozing with pity and sighed, at which point I could seriously feel the steam rising out of my skull.

“Stop pointing out Claire's blemish, Jordan. She's very sensitive about it.” She smiled at me apologetically and then headed toward the checkout.

Blemish?
Who uses that word anymore? Sometimes I swear my mother was born a century ago and got sucked through some sort of time warp. And
sensitive?
Well, I guess that's what they call it when you want to dig a hole in the desert and live in it until your face clears. Ten to twenty years should do it.

Ah well.
There's a pearl in many an oyster, if you're willing to dig through gelatinous gunk to find 'em
— as my dad always says. (My dad says a lot of strange things.) But I get it. My pearl was the fact that it was the Saturday afternoon of a long weekend. I had a whole two and a half days for my skin to clear — if it didn't, Jordan would be the least of my worries. His nasty comments would be like sticky-sweet compliments compared to what Hollis Van Horn would say. I shuddered at the thought.

Hollis was my sworn enemy. She was everything I wasn't. Thick, blond hair cascading down her back. Long, lean legs that ended at her chin. Sparkling blue eyes. A voice that could charm hornets. She was the most popular girl in the seventh grade, and for some reason, she never missed a chance to humiliate me.

Like the time in fifth grade when I came to school wearing two different shoes. Totally
not
my fault. My old beagle, Cyrus, has this annoying little habit — he stashes things. Mostly
my
things. All I could find that day was one white Nike and an old black pump. I was mortified, but what could I do? I wore extra-long jeans and walked really slowly. I'm sure I would have gotten away with it, except for Hollis, who noticed my shoe malfunction and blabbed it to the whole class.

And then in sixth grade, I accidentally plucked all my eyebrows trying to create that supermodel look. It started with a single hair here and there, you know, just to tidy things up, and next thing I knew,
whoosh
, they were gone. My bald forehead would have stayed safely hidden behind the new bangs I'd hastily given myself, were it not for Hollis's eagle-eyes and big, fat mouth. Even now, the thought of it makes my cheeks blister with anger — not to mention my eyebrows itch.

“Wanna tomato?” said Jordan, tossing a ripe one in my direction. “Oh, I see you already have one — stuck to your face!”

I'd released the shopping cart just in time to catch the innocent victim before it splatted at my feet. I sighed and returned the tomato to its stand.

Yes, as mind-boggling as it may seem, Jordan was nothing compared to Hollis. At least with Jordan you knew what you were up against. Hollis was subtler than a snake and meaner than a skillet full of scorpions. If I showed up Tuesday morning with the planet Mars orbiting the tip of my nose, Hollis and her friends would never let me live it down.

Jordan began humming “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” as we approached the check-out. I was about to tell him that he was attracting hounds, when I heard her.

From somewhere behind me, a high-pitched trill of a voice twittered through the Supersave. Unmistakably Hollis.

My stomach bottomed out. I couldn't let her see my face like this. I danced on the spot like my feet were on fire, but there was nowhere to run — nowhere to hide. I wanted to shrivel up and die, or spontaneously combust. But since neither was an option, I did the only thing left for me to do.

ALIENS CURED MY ARTHRITIS
announced the headline in bold black letters. I snatched the latest copy of the tabloid magazine from the rack beside the checkout and just as I managed to bury my shame between the pages — it happened.

A tiny paperback book, no larger than a thank-you card, slipped from the metal rack overhead. It fluttered to the ground, landing open at my feet. For a second, the world around me dissolved. I stared in amazement at the words at the top of the page. Slowly, I bent down, lifted the book and examined the cover. Was it possible? The answer to my prayers? Right here, in my hot little hands? For once in my life, luck was on my side.

My mother was too busy organizing the food on the conveyor belt and Jordan was too engrossed in a sports magazine to notice when I slipped the little green book between the cans of cranberry sauce. Then, just as soon as the cashier scanned my little treasure, I snatched it back and jammed it into my pocket. I promised myself I'd sneak a five-dollar bill into Mom's wallet just as soon as we got home to make up for it.

So there I stood, grinning to myself like I'd just won the lottery. Hollis had miraculously passed by without seeing me and I was now in possession of a book that was going to fix my life. At least, that was the plan.

R
emedies
,
Rituals, and Incantations.

I sat on the edge of my bed, running my index finger across the faded black print on the mossy green cover. There was no accompanying photo. No illustration. Not even a symbol. Nothing that might divulge any clue as to the book's contents. I flipped through the fifty-some miniature pages before returning to examine the cover again. I tilted the book slightly, catching the light. Shimmering in the deep, mossy green was a leafy pattern. My eyes wandered from the title to the author's name emblazoned across the bottom in fancy black script:

The White Witch

I'd seen loads of little books like this at the check-out in the past:
Cheeses and Chutneys
,
The Best of Bananas
,
Lose Inches from Your Ankles
. They were all the same — perfectly designed to attract impulsive shoppers with zero willpower. Was it worth the five bucks I slipped into Mom's wallet? Maybe. Then again, maybe not.

Cyrus, who had been lying on the floor at the end of my bed, raised his head, pointed his wrinkled, prune-like nose at me, and snorted.

I frowned. “Quit judging me, Cyrus.” He snorted again (Cyrus always wants the last word), and laid his head back on his front paws to let me know he'd said his piece. I tossed the book aside and flopped backward, plunging into the feathery softness of my duvet. “You're right. I admit it. I've sunk to an all-time low.”

“Lights out, Claire!” called my mother from the hallway.

“Five minutes!” I hollered back, in the most sincere voice I could manage.

“Make sure you get tons of beauty sleep — you need it!
Eehah, eehah, eehah
…”

“Jordan! Leave your sister alone …” My mother's voice faded into something more threatening, but I couldn't have cared less. Jordan could bungee-jump over cactuses using spaghetti as far as I was concerned.

New conviction coursed through my veins. I snatched the book from beside me, skipped past all the boring stuff — the foreword, the table of contents, the chapter introductions — and found the exact page I'd seen staring up at me in the grocery store. I read it out loud.

Acne Remedy

1 cup natural yogurt

3 tbsp. oatmeal

100 g Limburger cheese

6 cloves crushed garlic

In a small wooden bowl, using fingertips, mix all ingredients into a paste. Stand in front of a mirror and apply to face while chanting three times:

I feel the magic deep within me,

By the power and energy of three times three.

Blisters, boils, bubbles be gone,

Cleanse my pores, cleanse 'til dawn!

Let paste dry on face overnight. Wash thoroughly in the morning.

Underneath it was a remedy for diarrhea and on the next page, a really complex cure for ingrown toenails. But I spent little time examining those before returning my gaze to what I hoped was the magic miracle that would exile my evil pimple and clear the battleground to avoid any future uprisings.

I did a brief mental check. I was pretty sure we had all the ingredients — except maybe the Limburger. Dad
was
sort of a cheese-a-holic though, so if not Limburger, I figured he'd have a good substitute. But how to go about preparing my potion unnoticed? I decided it best to wait until everyone was asleep before raiding the refrigerator.

My parents were fairly predictable people. Mom usually went to bed sometime between ten and ten-thirty. She'd read a few pages of a big, fat romance novel with some muscular guy with long wavy hair on the cover until she'd drift off. Dad stayed up later to watch all his legal shows (he liked to think of himself as an investigator, district attorney, and forensic psychologist all rolled into one). At least once he headed up to bed he'd be out in a matter of minutes. Jordan, as usual, would be my biggest obstacle.

Jordan got to watch TV with dad. At eleven, he had to go to his room, but he always stayed up way past then playing games on his laptop or phone. I know because I'd heard him brag about it a zillion times to all his buddies. Yes, Jordan would be a problem. I'd have to make sure he was asleep before I began skulking around the house. If he caught me, he'd rat me out for sure — Jordan's middle name is Rat. El Doofus Rat Murphy. I'm thinking of buying him monogrammed towels for his birthday.

So there I lay, impatiently watching the glowing digital numbers on my clock change and change again. I must have nodded off at some point, because next thing I knew, it was midnight — the
Witching Hour
. How fitting.

I poked a toe at the floor, testing the ground tentatively. Once I was certain Cyrus wasn't lying there, I slipped out from under the covers and crept toward the door. I opened it a crack. Not even the tiniest sliver of light snaked out from under Jordan's closed door. Perfect.

I tiptoed across the landing and down the stairs. I couldn't risk switching on the lights so I groped around the kitchen in the shadows. My little green book was tucked neatly into the pocket of my pajamas. Luckily, I'd memorized the recipe.

Unfortunately, the only wooden bowl we had was the size of Arizona. I really wanted to follow the instructions as closely as possible, in case I got it wrong and managed to turn my face purple or grow a beard or something, so I retrieved the monster bowl from under the kitchen island and placed it on the counter.

Next — the yogurt and cheese. The fridge light went on automatically so I didn't have to dig blindly through long-forgotten leftovers or half-rotten fruit. I snatched a plastic yogurt tub and fished through the cold-cut compartment, locating a hunk of mouldy blue cheese. It wasn't Limburger, but hey, it was better than a kick in the shins with a frozen Ugg. I shut the door and the sudden shift from light to darkness sent a million glowing dots swarming in front of me. I staggered blindly toward the counter, stubbing my toes in the corner. A single yelp escaped my lips before I managed to stifle myself. I scrunched my toes, letting the pain dissolve, but it was too late. Cyrus's jingle-jangle tags and
click-click
-
clicking
of his nails across the ceramic tiles interrupted the silence.

Snorfle.

“I may not be able to see you, Cyrus,” I hissed, “but don't think for a second I don't know that look in your eye. Now, could you please just be quiet and stay out of my way?” I heard Cyrus slide to the ground, grunting once more just to let me know who was boss.

I got a spoon from the cutlery drawer and a cup from the cabinet. I measured out the yogurt and let it splat into the wooden bowl, plopping the hunk of cheese into the middle of it. My mother kept all the cereal in large plastic containers. I found the oatmeal, grabbed a handful and tossed it into the mixture.

Then I paused. The final ingredient required a bit of thought. A trio of wire baskets hung in the corner of the kitchen. There were a few oranges and some bananas in the lower basket, kiwis in the middle one, and fresh garlic in the top basket.

I shook my head. Nuh-uh. The combination of knives and darkness was a recipe for bloodshed. I couldn't afford to lose a finger, so I opted for the fridge again where we kept a jar of pre-chopped garlic fermenting in oil. I snatched the jar and opened it. A cloud of hazy-stink assaulted my nostrils.

“Whew!” I said, fanning the air around me. I decided if this potion didn't work, I could always try rubbing one of my best friend Paula-Jean Fanelli's garlic-eggplant sandwiches on my face and hope for the best. For a second, I contemplated exactly what one clove of chopped garlic might look like, and then dumped in the whole jar just to be on the safe side.

Done.

I rubbed my hands together in anticipation and then dipped my fingers into the cool, mushy concoction. I mixed and mashed. I slid and swirled. The oatmeal was lumpy. The garlic was slippery. The cheese was stinky.

Minus the foul odour, I was almost starting to enjoy the experience when suddenly, the lights went on.