Chasing the White Witch (10 page)

I
shoved Hollis aside, nearly knocking her off her stool. It killed our touching moment.

“Hey!” she shouted, but there was no time to explain. I was already halfway out the door.

I danced side to side, waiting for a lull in the traffic. By the time it was safe to cross, Hollis was hanging on to me and I was dragging her across the street, chasing after my runaway bubble-package.

“Wait!” I shouted. “Stop!” But my package kept moving, weaving in and out of pedestrian-traffic like a running-back heading for a touchdown.

I let go of Hollis, who couldn't keep up, and broke into a full-blown sprint. I nearly knocked several people over, including the old lady I'd seen enter the drugstore, before I caught up to my package. Reaching out, I grabbed hold of the shiny teal and orange shirt of its captor. I dug my heels into the concrete, and managed to bring the guy to a standstill. He swung round to face me — all seven feet of him — swatting at my hand like I was some kind of insect.

“You stole it!” I shouted up at him. “You stole my package!”

“What?” said the guy in the Miami Dolphins jersey. “What are you going on about, little lady?”

I was fuming. This guy had completely, totally, and miserably blown my most awesome plan. I didn't know how he did it, but he had stolen my package and ruined everything and I wasn't about to let him get away with it.

“My package!” I said, anger shooting like sparks from every fibre of my being. I pointed an accusing finger at the bubble-envelope. “How did you get hold of
my
package!”

I could tell by his expression that he was more than confused than angry. “
Your
package?” he said. He held out the envelope for me to see. “Now that's funny. How did
your
package go and get itself addressed to
me
and get placed in
my
mail box?”

Wham!
I felt like I'd just been run over by the entire Miami defensive line. Impossible. No way. Not a chance. I shook my head. The world around me began to spin. I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. I thought I was going to heave all over the guy's giant white Nikes. I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths. When my stomach settled, I opened my eyes. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my little green book. I held it in my trembling hands, running my fingers across the author's name. The White Witch. Hollis had caught up with us by now. She volleyed glances between me, the book, and the enormous man standing in front of me.

“It can't be,” I said, my voice quivering. “You're not a … a … a …”

“A
witch?
” he said, eyeing the book and smiling warmly.

“You're not even … wha … wha—”

“White?”
he said, his grin spreading like butter across his lips.

How could this be? I wracked my brain. How could I have been this wrong about something I was so absolutely sure of?

“
You
are W. White?” I said, disbelief echoing in every syllable.

“Sure am,” he said. “Wayne White. At your service.” He tipped his head. Then he took the book from my hands, flipping through the pages. His eyes were twinkling like he was remembering an old friend. “I see you've read one of my books.” He held it out for me.

I took a step back. No way. This was all wrong. This couldn't be happening. W. White was a witch. A woman. A White Witch who was going to help me de-hex Hollis.

I felt myself deflating like a punctured beachball. Poor Hollis. What was I going to do now? I'd cursed her and then promised her I'd fix everything. I dragged her out of her home and through the city. And for what? For it all to end like this? I looked at her apologetically. She didn't say a word. I could tell she was thinking the same thing. She took the book from the man and gently placed it into my hands.

Tears welled in my eyes. “I-I used your b-book to cast a binding spell on my friend. And I lost the string and I can't remove the spell. I-I was hoping the White Witch — I mean,
you
could wave your magic wand or something and fix everything.”

He stared at me for what felt like an eternity. He was still smiling, but something in his eyes had changed — I felt those two dark pools looking right into me. Right through me.

“I'm afraid I can't help you,” he said quietly. “I have no magic powers.”

My heart felt like it had fallen into quicksand and was sinking fast. This guy was my last hope. He just had to be able to help me. “But, you wrote this book,” I said. “You
are
the White Witch, even if you don't look like one. Can't you do something? Anything?”

He sighed and shook his head. “I wrote that book all right. But I'm not the person you're looking for. I'm a writer. I write things. I wrote a bunch of those little books, you know,
Cheeses and Chutneys
,
The Best of Bananas
. It pays the bills — tides me over until I can publish what I'm really passionate about.”

“And what's that?” asked Hollis.

“Poetry,” he said.

This was great. Just great. I went on a wild and crazy journey to find a little white witch and what I found was a seven-foot poet. Still, I'd come this close and I wasn't going to give up that easily. “So you're telling me this book isn't magic?” I said. “You're saying it has no magic power whatsoever? That I didn't really cast any spells?”

He took a deep breath and put a hand on my shoulder. He slowly shook his head.

Hollis began to sniffle. I think the reality of her situation was sinking in. If the book had no power and I didn't actually hex her — then she was really and truly sick. And what was worse, there was nothing I, or any witch, could do to help her.

I just wouldn't accept it. I couldn't. “But my zit … and Jordan … and Hollis …” I said, my voice fading to a whisper. “I was so sure …”

“Not everything in life is what it appears to be,” he said, taking his hand from my shoulder. “Nothing is simple, either. Life isn't ever black or white. Mostly it's just shades of grey.”

For a second, Wayne White reminded me a lot of my father. That made me think of my parents — of Hollis's parents. I needed to get Hollis home. I'd caused her enough trouble, might as well get her home on time, if nothing else.

“I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bother you,” I said to Wayne White. I turned toward Hollis and took her gently by the arm. “Come on. Let's go home.”

Slowly, we started walking toward the streetcar stop. Over my shoulder, I heard Wayne White say, “My grandma used to say believin' goes a long way …”

Perfect. Exactly what I needed. I came all this way and dragged Hollis along just for some stupid saying my father could have tossed at me back home. Home. It suddenly felt a long way away. And it was going to get even longer still.

“Now remember,” I said to Hollis, as the streetcar approached. “Take the northbound subway to Finch Station. From there, take the 2A bus. It will bring you right to your street.”

Her face contorted. “What? Why are you giving me directions? You're coming, aren't you?”

I could see panic flash in her eyes as I shook my head. She began to argue as the streetcar buzzed to a halt and the doors smacked open. I grabbed her hand and placed the bus fare in her palm — the last of my money. “Remember, the 2A.”

I ushered her on board. I could still hear her cursing long after the doors sealed shut. I stood there watching the streetcar disappear down Queen Street. I suddenly felt very alone.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out Jordan's phone. Just before I began to dial, I noticed a white spot on my shoulder where Wayne had put his hand. Could it possibly be clown makeup?

"H
ey
,” I said, after Mac passed the phone to Jordan.

“Hey,” said Jordan. “Where are you?”

“Um, downtown,” I muttered.

After a pause that felt like hours he asked, “You okay? You don't sound so good.”

Standing alone at the corner of Queen and Dovercourt, I was fighting a losing battle with my emotions. Jordan's question gave my feelings a huge advantage. I couldn't contain them any longer. I started blubbering uncontrollably.

“I'm stuck. I have no money to get home. I don't know what to do. Can you come get me, Jordan? I'll be nice to you from now on. I won't bug you. And I'll never thrash you again — not even indirectly — I swear!”

“Indirectly thrash whaa?” he said. I was too far gone now to respond in any sort of coherent manner. The rest of what came out of me was a jumble of syllables, sounds, and sniffles mingled with some quite alien-sounding utterances.

“Whoa! Claire!” he shouted. I heard him say something muffled by his hand on the receiver. I swallowed great gulps of air trying to calm myself. “Hang on,” he said. “I'm coming.”

He stayed on the phone long enough to find out my exact location. I told him about the doughnut shop where Hollis and I had stalked the not-so-white not-so-witch. He told me to wait inside. To tell the employees, if they tried to kick me out, that I was just waiting for him and he'd buy some coffee and some doughnuts when he arrived. I collected what was left of my nerve and did as he said.

It was a long hour while I waited for Jordan to arrive. At least the doughnut shop employees seemed to take pity on me and didn't get on my case for loitering. As I sat in the exact same spot I'd been sitting not long ago with Hollis, I wondered how she was faring. I wondered if she'd gotten home in time or if I'd gotten her in trouble with her parents. I was worried about her — I really was. And not just about her journey home, but about her health. If I hadn't truly hexed her I wondered what could be causing all her issues. The numbness in her left hand. Her left foot dragging. The headaches. No matter which way I looked at it, it wasn't good. I was so angry at myself for ever wishing her harm. I felt lower than dirt for delighting in her misfortune. I came to the conclusion that I definitely had some serious character cleansing to undergo.

As soon as I saw Jordan through the window I sprang from my seat and raced to the door. I threw myself at him, giving him the biggest hug I can remember. And the weirdest thing was that he let me. He actually let me. I mean, it wasn't as if he hugged me back or anything, but he let me hug him and that was enough. I had so many things I wanted to say, but didn't know where to begin. He helped me out by simply saying, “Come on, Claire. Let's go home.”

I was shocked when Jordan led me around the corner from the doughnut shop to where my father sat in his car waiting. I flashed Jordan an angry look, but it quickly melted to gratitude once I was sitting safely inside the car.

“We'll talk about this later with your mother,” said my dad, after reaching back and giving me a huge kiss on the cheek. “You might as well take in all the daylight you can, Claire-bear — since other than going to school, you won't be seeing much of it for a very long time.”

Grounded. Figures. And yet somehow the idea of sitting safely at home, tucked away in my room, wasn't remotely unappealing.

“Does Mom know?” I asked, hesitantly. Mom was the heavy hand. A good, solid six months of grounding was getting off easy with her.

“Sure does,” said my father. “She wanted to be here as well … but …” His voice suddenly changed. I could feel he was choking back something. After a long pause during which I could tell he was reining in his emotions, he continued, “But she's with Cyrus right now at the vet's. I wasn't going to tell you until we got home, but Cyrus wasn't doing so well today. He was throwing up a lot and refusing to eat and Mom had to take him to see the vet.”

“Cyrus!” I said, my voice sounding more like a yelp. I looked at Jordan and then at my father's eyes in the rear-view mirror. They were looking at each other, as if sharing a secret. “What's wrong with him? Tell me he's okay!”

Yet another piece of my world came crashing down on top of me. I'd been so mean to my dog lately, my sweet, grouchy, little beagle. I'd treated him as rotten as everyone else in my life. A wave of nausea rolled through my body.

“Take it easy, honey,” said my father. “He's going to be okay. He had to have an emergency operation. Apparently the poor guy had some kind of knotted piece of string stuck inside his intestines.”

At that point I think I must have passed out, because all I remember is the world outside my window fading to black.

I
held Cyrus in my trembling hands. I didn't even try to fight back my tears. He was weak and was wearing one of those cone-like contraptions to keep him from picking at his bandage. He still managed to lift his pointy little snout and stare at me, his amber eyes sad and helpless.

“I'm sorry,” I whispered into his velvety ear. “I am so sorry.”

He tried to growl in typical Cyrus-style, but not much sound came out.

“I know,” I said. “You were right. You were right about everything.” Satisfied that he'd finally won the argument, Cyrus laid his head in my lap and closed his eyes to rest.

I sat cradling him in my lap for over an hour. I had been so horribly mean to him and I was completely responsible for his terrible condition. Never for a second did I think he'd go and eat the darn knotted string.

My mother actually brought the disgusting thing home in a little plastic baggie. It was the most vile thing I'd ever seen, all covered in wet mucus-y gunk. But it was definitely recognizable. It was mine all right. No mistaking it.

“Do you know anything about this, Claire?” asked my mother, holding the baggie up for me to see.

With downcast eyes, puffy and red from crying, I told my parents the whole story. They were really good about it, I have to say, since they actually let me tell the entire story without interrupting me even once. I think they thought I'd lost my mind because when I was done, my mother shook her head.

“Claire,” she said. “Even if you could do magic, you can't go around trying to hex everyone who you don't get along with.”

“I know that now, Mom,” I said. “Believe me, I've learned my lesson. And I know this is going to sound really nuts, but I wish I had hexed Hollis. I mean, at least then I'd be able to de-hex her. She's really sick, you know.”

I'd tried calling Hollis several times since I got home, but there was no answer at her house. I couldn't shake the horrible feeling that was growing in the pit of my stomach. I don't know how I knew it, but I knew something was really wrong.

My father, who had sat silently throughout my bizarre explanation, finally spoke. I braced myself as he opened his mouth. I was ready for it. I knew what was coming. At least I thought I did.

“I'm glad you've learned your lesson, Claire. I'm also glad you're taking responsibility for your actions. I hope you realize now that when people don't get along it's never one hundred percent one person's fault.” He put his arm around me. “Hollis is going to be just fine,” he said. “You have to believe it. Sometimes believing goes a long way.”

Wham!
I couldn't believe it. His words hit me square in the jaw. Those were the exact words the White Witch — I mean, Wayne White — had told me! This was weird. Really weird. He and my father both wanted me to believe. But how was my believing going to help Hollis? I hadn't quite figured that out yet.

Though I was technically grounded, my parents let me continue to call Hollis until it was really late. There was no way I was going to sleep until I knew she was okay. It was almost ten o'clock, when Hollis's father finally answered the phone. What he told me made my blood run cold. I listened, barely hearing his words. I felt paper-thin, like everything that had happened — everything that was happening — was happening in some sort of parallel two-dimension reality.

Cyrus wasn't the only one who had to have emergency surgery. According to her father, when Hollis got home from her city trek with me, her headache was excruciating. Her parents found her writhing in pain. They rushed her to the Hospital for Sick Kids,where she had to have an emergency MRI. It was the last test she was scheduled for the next day. The doctors discovered she had a lump in the lining of her brain and had to remove it immediately.

His words ran me over like a freight train. I couldn't breathe. It was like there wasn't enough oxygen in the whole world to fill even half my lungs. I gasped, struggling for air, but ended up coughing and choking on it. I had to say something. I had to force my lips to move. Force the words out of my mouth. The sound was scratchy and high-pitched — a voice that wasn't my own.

“I-is sh-she going to b-be ok-kay?”

“Time will tell,” said her father. “Tonight is critical. I just came home to get Hollis's mother a few things and then I'm heading back to the hospital.”

For the first time in my life I was at a complete loss for words. Things that usually came shooting out of my mouth like lightning were blocked behind the boulder-sized lump in my throat. I tried to swallow, but I couldn't manage enough spit.

“She knew you would call,” said Mr. Van Horn suddenly.

My stomach did back flips as my mind struggled to keep up with what he was saying.

“Hollis knew you would call, Claire,” repeated her father. “She kept muttering, ‘
Tell Claire it's okay. Tell Claire it's not her fault
.' I don't know what she meant, but I'm guessing you do.”

For the second time that day, tears spilled down my cheeks. I don't know how I managed to get the words out, but I asked if I could visit her. Her father said he'd let me know in the morning. Before he hung up, I said, “Tell Hollis … tell Hollis …” but I couldn't finish my sentence.

“I'll tell her,” he said. And then he hung up.

I hadn't even noticed, but my parents and Jordan had gathered round me while I was on the phone. Between gulping sobs, I managed to tell them about Hollis's surgery. Jordan was the first to reach over and give me a hug.

It was almost midnight when I finally went up to bed. I laid my head on my pillow and tried to sleep, but it wouldn't come. There was something that was bothering me. Something niggling at the back of my brain, struggling to break free. It was like a word you can't come up with, a word you know perfectly well, yet it's hiding in the shadows of your mind.

When the clock in the hall began to strike midnight, it was like the fog in my brain suddenly cleared and I knew exactly what I had to do.

Sometimes, believing goes a long way …

“Of course!” I said, sitting bolt-upright in my bed. I thumped the side of my mattress. “Why didn't I think of it sooner?”

I scrambled out of my bed and raced down the stairs. I opened the door to the garage and rummaged through the trash for the little baggie containing the disgusting shoelace. Locating it, I raced back to my bedroom with the plastic bag in my hands and searched the floor for my jeans. I dug out my little green book and then turned on my bedside lamp. I flipped frantically though the pages until I found the Binding Hex. Wrinkling my nose and holding my breath, I opened the baggie and took out the nasty shoelace. I shuddered as I held the gross thing in my hands. But nothing was going to stop me from what I now knew I needed to do. I took a deep breath, and, digging my fingernails into each of the seven knots, I began to untie them, one by one, all the while chanting:

Un-shut the mouth,

Un-seal the eyes,

Un-clasp the limbs,

Un-tie the ties

Un-block the ears,

Un-twist the toe,

Un-hold the heart,

Un-bind my foe.

No longer hast thou caused me harm,

By notion, word, or deed,

Now thought, word, and deed with kindness has been done,

Now you and I are free.