Chasing the White Witch (5 page)

T
wo
more days passed without Hollis at school, and by Friday, I have to tell you I was getting a titch worried — not about her, mind you, but about me! I'd been stumbling and fumbling and bumbling and mumbling the entire time. I'd tripped over my own feet countless times. I'd walked into walls, dropped pencils, utensils, not to mention my mother's best crystal vase. My ears felt like they were plugged and my eyes prickled, forcing me to blink exorbitantly. Despite all the warning signs, it wasn't until my project presentation with Jason Jenkins that it became clear to me what I was up against.

“Jason and Claire,” announced Mrs. Martin, after thanking Paula-Jean, Tenisha, and Tiffany for their riveting presentation using a combination of poetry and tableau to demonstrate several strategies to counter the pressures to smoke, drink, and take drugs.

As Jason unveiled a model of a healthy human lung he'd whipped together using balloons, surgical tubing, a three-way hose connector, and modelling clay, I felt my tongue begin to swell. I tried to chew it back down to size while Jason demonstrated the healthy lungs, but that only made it swell all the more. Next, Jason opened a jar filled with a black tar-like substance and, using a funnel, he poured the gunk into a balloon to show the class what smokers' lungs look like and how they are unable to function properly. I was sure my tongue was the size of a lemon when Jason turned the presentation over to me. I took a deep breath and cleared my throat.

“Moking ih maa,” was all I managed to get out.

Mrs. Martin's face contorted. “I beg your pardon?”

I took another deep breath and tried again. “Moking ih maa mor moo. Ih may moo ick.”

“Is there something wrong, Claire?” Mrs. Martin frowned. “Is this supposed to be part of your project or are you trying to develop an accent again, because I suggest …”

I shook my head violently. “My ongue. My ongue ih wolen.”

I held up my part of the project — a poster I'd sketched the night before of a hippopotamus sitting down and squashing a cigarette. It had a caption that read:
BUTT OUT!
I smiled weakly.

Clearly, Mrs. Martin was unimpressed. She scribbled furiously in her assessment binder and then asked me to go get a drink of water and sit down. “
Your
part of the project was fabulous, Jason — definitely level 4,” I heard her say as I exited the class.

“Ason Enkins,” I muttered to myself. I knew whatever I said or did would pale in comparison to that overachieving grade-hog. I was almost beginning to wonder what curse I could toss his way, when I came face to face with a portrait of Hollis holding up last year's Spelling Bee award.

Hollis.

The hex.

That was it.

I gasped and held my throat as I stared at Hollis's glistening eyes and sweet smile. I swear she was laughing at me. There was no doubt left in my mind. I'd cursed Hollis pretty good and the darned spell had definitely bounced back
returning to me threefold,
if not three thousandfold. Paula-Jean would have the biggest I-told-you-so party if she ever found out. But she wasn't going to find out. As I bent to take a long drink from the fountain and cool my swelling tongue, my brain switched gears in a flash and I had a new plan. I was going to fix things and fix them immediately. I was going to undo the curse and then
presto!
— both Hollis and I would be back to normal.

That evening, I turned my bedroom upside down searching for the missing knotted shoelace, but it was nowhere to be found. I searched the entire house, racing from one room to another, rummaging through drawers, looking underneath sofa cushions, checking every corner and crevice at least ten times.

My father caught hold of me on one of my journeys through the living room.

“Slow down, Claire,” he said, grabbing hold of my shoulders.

“Please, Dad, let go,” I huffed. “I'm really busy. I need to find something.”

“Take a deep breath and relax. Where you are going is more important than how fast you get there.”

“GAH!” I cried. “Not another one of your sayings! Please, Dad, I don't have time to do something as trivial as think.”

“Ah, but isn't that your trouble?” He smiled and released me from his grip. He patted me on the back and sat down to watch a
CSI
rerun.

He was right. I didn't take time to think. That's what had gotten me in this mess in the first place. I gave up looking for the shoelace. I had to face the facts — it was gone.

Despondent, I trudged back up to my bedroom. I flipped through my little green book a hundred times, but I couldn't locate any kind of counter-curse. I reread the binding hex over and over, but it gave me no clue as to how to undo the spell. That night I tossed and turned (falling out of my bed several times, I might add). How was I going to get myself out of this mess? How was I going to un-hex (or was it de-hex?) Hollis?

I called Hollis's house on Saturday morning. Her mother answered and said Hollis was unable to come to the phone. Panic rippled through my whole body. Oh what had I done to her? Was she so feeble she couldn't even come to the phone!

“No.” I shook my head, refusing to believe what every cell in my body was screaming out at me. “It can't possibly be. I couldn't possibly have that much power. It's the pageant,” I told myself. “She must be all wrapped up practising for that dumb pageant.”

I decided I had to see for myself. I told my mother I desperately needed to go to the Boxgrove fair. I couldn't live if I didn't see the Miss Teen Turnip Pageant. I could tell by the look on her face that my mother wasn't buying it. She knew I had no use for beauty pageants, but before she could interrogate me further, Jordan offered to go with me and sit through the entire thing (for purely selfish reasons, of course). Reluctantly, my mother agreed to drive us there and pick us up.

I sat impatiently, fidgeting with my chipped nails, watching as candidate after candidate appeared from behind the stage curtain. Most were older than Hollis and I, but some were younger. All were a thousand times prettier than I was. Hollis had to show, I kept telling myself. She had to. When they finally called out her name and she was a no-show, I was so devastated that I practically withered into a heap on the floor.

“She wouldn't miss this pageant for anything,” I told myself. “She has to be really sick. Oh, what have I done to her? How am I going to fix this?”

I left the fair completely disheartened, dragging my feet, and only stumbling once or twice. Jordan, on the other hand, had a bounce in his step. He'd managed to get the beauty pageant winner's phone number and was more cheerful than usual.

“You look like crap, Claire,” he said, stuffing his face with caramel corn. “Been eatin' that garlic-y oatmeal junk again?”

“No,” I sighed. “If you really must know, I cursed somebody using string and knots and now I'm cursed, too, and I have no idea how to undo a rotten curse because my little green book of witch spells failed to include that apparently important information. That's all.”

“Oh,” said Jordan, shoving another fistful of caramel corn into his mouth as though he hadn't heard a word I'd said. He offered me the bag. “Want some?”

I rolled my eyes and shook my head. It was no use talking to Jordan. What did he know about hexing? And what did he care about me or my problems, anyway? He'd probably be happy thinking it was some kind of joke to watch me stumble my way through life.

I just had to think of something, but I was at a complete loss. I needed help. But who could I turn to?
Who?

"H
ey
,” I said, trying to sound as casual as possible just to gauge whether or not Paula-Jean would even talk to me.

“Hey.”

She actually responded, which was a good sign, because for a second there I thought she was going to hang up on me. Still, her voice was flat — almost expressionless.

“So, er, how are you doing, Peej?”

I tried hard to sound upbeat. Peppy. Downright jovial. There was a long pause. I was thinking she might start yelling at me any second. After all, things hadn't exactly been good between us lately and I can't say I didn't deserve a good verbal thrashing. But instead, Paula-Jean let the silence dangle between us like the blade of a guillotine. When she finally spoke, her words came down swift and sharp. To tell you the truth, I couldn't really blame her.

“Why do you want to know? Did you cast some sort of evil curse on me or something?”

Ouch. That hurt. But since it was entirely possible, I decided to let the comment slide.

“No. No, I didn't do
that
, but well, you see, I … I …”

“Come on, Claire. Spit it out. I haven't got all day. Is my hair going to fall out? Will I be plagued with dandruff? Attacked by arthritis?”

I had been agonizing over my situation for some time now, bottling up all my anguish and fear, and when Paula-Jean opened the door with her question, it was like everything I'd packed in me came gushing out in a giant tsunami of emotion.

“Oh Paula-Jean, I put this teensy-weensy binding curse on Hollis and now she's off sick and it's all my fault because I was so mad at her for being your partner and taking you away from me because you're my only friend — you're all I've got — and she knew it and she wanted to hurt me because I'd made her miss Fall Fun Day and then I wanted to hurt her back, so I put the curse on her and now she's sick, she's really sick and it's all my fault and I can't undo the spell because I can't find the shoelace and I can't undo the knots and now Hollis is going to be sick forever, maybe even die, because of me and you were right, you were totally right, the book is evil, EVIL, I tell you, and I'm … a … I'm a … a H-HORRIB-BLE P-PERS-SON!”

The last few words sputtered out between fits of hysterical sobs. When I was done, I didn't even try to stop the tears that streamed down my face like a river of regret. My tongue flapped and I gasped and gurgled for several minutes until I managed to get control of myself. I wiped my eyes and nose with my sweatshirt all the while wondering if Paula-Jean was still on the line.

“Y-you s-still there?” I stammered.

“Yep,” said Paula-Jean.

“A-are y-you s-still my f-friend?”

“Yep,” said Paula-Jean, though I wished she'd have used a more convincing tone.

“W-what are we g-going to do, Peej?” I asked.

“
We
?” Paula-Jean said coolly. “
We?
You have some nerve.”

“Go on and say it,” I whimpered. “I deserve it. Say
I told you so
.”

“Okay. I told you so. There. That doesn't solve anything, Claire.”

“Does it at least make you feel better?”

“Minimally.”

“Look, Peej, I need to undo this curse. I tied seven knots in a shoelace and now I can't find the shoelace to undo them. If I can't undo them, Hollis and I will be cursed forever.”

“Oh. So this is about
you
, Claire.”

“Well. Sort of. Kind of. But it's more about Hollis. I swear. I really need to remove the curse. I want her to be well again. Honestly. So, what am I going to do? I know you'll think of something, Peej. You always do.”

“Not a chance. You got yourself into this mess, Claire, and now you're going to have to get yourself out of it. Even if I wanted to help you I couldn't. Last I checked I wasn't a witch! I told you not to mess with that voodoo stuff, to heed the warning. Remember the warning? The one you so irresponsibly ignored? The one you said was only there so that people didn't sue the publisher?”

“Yes. The publisher. They ought to be sued. The publisher and the …” I began, but the remaining words died back into my throat when I realized what I was saying.

The warning. The publisher. The author. The author was a witch. A White Witch. She had to know how to undo the curse. It was so simple I kicked myself for not thinking of it right away.

“You're a genius, Peej!” I shrieked. “I knew you'd help me figure a way out of this mess!”

“Whoa!” said Paula-Jean. “I didn't …”

“Ah, but you did! You did!” I shouted. “Thank you so much, Paula-Jean. You're the best — the very best and I mean it!”

“But, Claire …”

“No buts — you are!” I said confidently. “I know exactly what I have to do now, Peej. I'm going to fix this. You'll see. I'm going to de-hex Hollis and me and make everything right. And I promise I'm going to be a far less vengeful person in the future. Really.”

“Claire …”

“There's just one teensy-tiny simple thing, Peej,” I said tentatively.

I heard Paula-Jean huff, like she was expecting me to ask her to fly to Rome or something. “Are you kidding me? Nothing is ever teensy or tiny or simple with you, Claire.”

“It's no biggie. Really,” I insisted. “If I just
happen
to be away from school tomorrow and Mrs. Martin just
happens
to ask, can you just tell her I'm sick?”

I could almost hear the
drip
,
drip
,
drip
of sarcasm as Paula-Jean spoke. “Oh sure, Claire. I can tell her I think you're sick. And it wouldn't be a lie, since I truly do believe you are sick — in the HEAD!”

“I deserve that, Peej. I do. But can you just file the insults for the moment and promise me …”

Paula-Jean sighed. “I sure hope you know what you're doing.”

“Oh I do!” The words bubbled out of me. “I really do this time, Peej. No worries.”

“Why is it when you say
no worries
that I begin to worry?”

“Aw, that's so sweet of you, Peej. You're worried about me!”

I hung up the phone feeling happier than I had in days. Paula-Jean was my friend again and I was going to set the world right. I headed straight for my little green book. This time I knew what I was doing. I really did. Even when I tripped and jammed my toe, I barely even let out a cry.

I opened the book to the copyright page. All it said was:

© The White Witch, 2011

Mixed Pickle Press, Toronto, Canada

All rights reserved

I frowned. I don't know what I expected to find, but certainly a little more than this. At least I knew it was a local publisher — finding their address wouldn't be difficult, but what I'd really hoped for was some way to contact the White Witch. The wheels in my brain cranked into full gear. “Hmmm … this is going to be a bit trickier than I thought.”