Hexed (23 page)

F
airfield High Renegades entertain what I like to think is a pretty decent-sized audience most game nights, considering it’s L.A. and school spirit isn’t really a thing here. So it’s no surprise that on the afternoon of homecoming, the bleachers are so jam-packed full they’re at risk of collapse.

I scan the crowd as I perform the moves to Bianca’s pregame warm-up routine, but realize that I won’t find who I’m looking for. Mom won’t be coming to any more of my games. I blink back tears, because now’s
so
not the time to get emotional.

Aunt Penny is here, though, front row center, with Bishop. So there’s that. The plan was to have Bishop watch the game from afar, so as to give the Priory the impression that I was alone, without protection. But the second I realized Aunt Penny couldn’t be talked out of coming to the game—she was homecoming queen her senior year, after all—I had to ditch that plan. At least I don’t have to worry about Paige, who agreed to stay home following only minor threats of violence against her if she didn’t listen.

Mrs. Hornby blows her obnoxious whistle as she jogs over from the sidelines. Hornby’s hard core into female athletics and female empowerment in general and can pretty much one hundred percent of the time be found wearing a full tracksuit with big pitters. She’s been both the girls’ volleyball and girls’ soccer coach since forever, and has now taken on the role of cheerleading coach in the wake of Carmen’s death. And she’s … unpleasant. Mrs. Horny, as we’ve very maturely dubbed her, has made no secret of the fact that she thinks cheerleading is demeaning to women.

“All right, girls,” she says. “As you all know, it’s an important game today. And there is no way the football team can manage to win without you girls out there, shaking your booties and yelling out nice things to the boys. So do your school proud!”

A collective eye roll passes over the squad.

“Isn’t it against some sort of rule to be sarcastic to students?” I ask, eliciting a hum of support.

But Mrs. Malone’s voice comes over the speaker, announcing our squad, before Horny has a chance to respond.

“Come on, girls,” Bianca says, trotting toward the field. She turns around and runs backward. “We wouldn’t want to disappoint our
favorite
new coach,” she adds. And if I’m not mistaken, I’d say Bianca winked at me before spinning around again. Weird.

We take formation on the field. The music starts, and we launch into our choreographed dance.

And I must say, even with me slipping frantic searches for the Priory into the routine, we rock the faces off everyone in the stands. I like to think it’s why the Renegades are ahead 16–7 by the time the whistle blows for halftime.

On cue, the homecoming-court nominees head over to the carriage—which I guess sustained only minimal damages in the altercation with Leo—at the head of the processional of floats surrounding the field for the parade.

Bianca and I arrive at the carriage doors at the same time, and there’s an awkward thirty seconds where we both go to climb up at the same time, step back, then try again with equal success. Finally she steps back.

“Go ahead,” she says.

“No, you go ahead,” I respond.

“No, seriously,” she says. “I’m sorry I jumped in your way. It was wrong.” She gives a weak smile. It’s a bit much for the situation, and I get the distinct impression she’s apologizing for more than cutting me off. An actual apology would be more impressive, but it’s a start.

I climb up the steps into the carriage. Devon is already there, with two seniors from the football team who were also nominated for homecoming king, along with Mandy Allard, the strikingly gorgeous, black-haired sometimes-model and the only senior girl on the ticket for homecoming queen. She doesn’t bother to glare at us, and really, why should she? Juniors are never elected king and queen, even when we’re nominated.

Devon has the decency to look embarrassed when he sees Bianca and me enter the carriage together.

“Ladies,” he says, dipping his head at us before he launches into a conversation with one of the senior guys. We take our places for optimal viewing around the carriage as the marching band warms up, their horns and trumpets tooting and honking above the roar of the crowd.

I glance over at Aunt Penny and Bishop again. They’re making small talk, and Aunt Penny doesn’t look like she wants to jab his eyes out. Which is annoying. She waits until I hate the guy to decide he’s all right? Bishop glances over and catches my eye, giving me a little wave. I give him my back.

The driver guns the engine and the float jolts into action. The crowd goes nuts, waving their pennants and madly blowing into their noisemakers as we tour the track around the football field, led by the marching band. It’s easy to get lost in the energy of it all, and I find myself legitimately smiling as I wave at the audience. Weird, considering I could be attacked at any time. The thought puts me back on my game, and I spin around like a freaking contestant on
Dancing
with
the
Stars
to make sure I’m not caught off guard. But the parade comes to an end, and the Priory doesn’t attack. In fact, the football game ends—Renegades win, 30–11, woo—and still no murderous sorcerers descend on the stadium.

Devon jogs up to me at the end of the game. “Hey, you have a second to talk?”

I glance over my shoulder and confirm my suspicion that Bishop is watching this whole interaction much more intently than any other portion of the game. I nod at Devon.

“Good,” he says. “So look …” He laces his fingers together and cracks his knuckles. After a few false starts he gets going again.

“I know you said you don’t want to hear any excuses about what I did with Bianca—”

My face glows red at the mention of the incident. “Stop right there,” I say. “I don’t want to get into it again. Just because I agreed to go to the dance with you tonight doesn’t mean we’re getting back together. It’s like you said—no use ruining homecoming for both of us.”

“That didn’t come out right,” he says, and it’s his turn for his cheeks to turn pink. “Look, I know we’re not getting back together, but … can we at least be friends?”

My instinct is to kick him in the nads, but that’d probably make for some awkward homecoming dance moments. And so I mumble a “fine” instead. A huge smile instantly lights up his face, and he envelops me in a bear hug.

“Thanks, Ind. I really mean it.” He plants a kiss on top of my head before taking off for the parking lot.

“Friends don’t kiss!” I call to his back, but he’s lost in the crowd. I shake my head.

“You did so great!” Aunt Penny squeals, bounding up behind me with Bishop in tow. She takes me by the shoulders. “You’re a rock star.”

“Made up with Quarterback Jack, I see,” Bishop says oh so casually, as if he were just reporting on the weather. Which is exactly why I know he’s jealous.

I give him an insincere smile.

“Sorry, Bishop,” Aunt Penny says, linking arms with me, “But I have to get this girl home. If we don’t get started on her hair now, she’ll never be ready in time.”

I try not to take that as an insult.

Aunt Penny stands behind me, critically assessing my reflection in the bathroom mirror.

“Something’s missing,” she mumbles, chewing the side of her fingernail.

I can’t imagine what that could possibly be. After three hours under her “professional guidance” (she once worked as a makeup artist on her friend’s indie movie), I’ve had so much gunk caked on my face I was sure that when I finally looked in the mirror I’d be ready to entertain at a children’s birthday party. I’ve had my hair straightened, curled, pulled into elaborate updos, and coated with toxic levels of hair spray, only to be pulled down and washed so many times I’ve lost count. All this only to end up with a simple low bun at the nape of my nape with a few curly tendrils framing my face, paired with light, shimmery eye shadow and bold pink lip gloss. Strangely, it’s my favorite look yet.

“Wait here.”

Aunt Penny leaves the bathroom, returning moments later with a handful of tiny white flowers.

“You just happened to have baby’s breath on hand?” I ask as she scatters the flowers throughout my curls.

“An artist is always prepared,” she says.

She steps back after poking at least eighty more bobby pins into my hair. And this time, she smiles.

“Done?” I ask her reflection.

“Done,” she responds. Her smile fades suddenly and she bites her lips.

“Aunt Penny?”

She tries to smile again but fails. “She loved you so much,” she croaks.

My eyes fill with tears at the mention of Mom. “And I loved her too,” I manage, my voice thick with emotion.

Aunt Penny puts her arms around my waist and rests her cheek against my shoulder. Our gazes meet in the mirror.

“You know, you’re doing a good job,” I say.

She lets out a little sob. We’re still for a moment, the memory of Mom so strong between us it’s practically a tangible thing. And then she straightens up and shakes off like a dog come in from the rain. “Okay, enough of this, you’re going to ruin your makeup, and then what’ll we do? Turn around, check yourself out.”

I spin to take in all the angles of my hair and makeup.

“You’re
good,
” I say, to which Aunt Penny responds by squealing and clapping.

“I told you to trust me. Devon is going to shit when he sees how hot you look.”

I roll my eyes. “I told you, I don’t care what Devon thinks. We’re just friends. Not even, really. I’m just going with him because everyone else already has a date.”

She cocks her head, a hand on her hip. “So you’re telling me not the tiniest part of you wants him to regret cheating on you?”

“Of course she wants that,” Paige says, poking her head around the open bathroom door. “What girl doesn’t want their cheating boyfriend to grovel and beg for forgiveness on hands and knees?”

“If even just to have better access to kick him in the teeth,” Aunt Penny adds, and they both nod.

“No, actually, I really and truly don’t care,” I say. “I mean, of course I want him to regret it, but no, I don’t care about him. … Ugh!” My cheeks flame. What I really regret is telling Aunt Penny that Devon cheated in the first place. And not just because I had to convince her that the whole ex-UFC-fighter thing was totally unnecessary.

Aunt Penny pats my shoulder, as if to say, “See, I know you better than you know yourself.”

“All right,” Paige says. “Let’s get you into your dress.”

A better plan has not been hatched.

It takes Paige under three minutes from the time we enter my bedroom to get me into the dress Mom helped me pick out months ago—a strapless, corset-back gown that fits tight around my bust, then billows out in a puff of navy-blue, crystal-embellished taffeta that reaches just past my knees (optimal dress length for running, thankfully)—buckle the clasps on my strappy heels (Paige insisted I wear flats, but I argued I can run just as well in heels), and hook my sequined clutch onto my arm. All just in time for the doorbell to ring.

My heart races, and I take a measured breath so that I don’t hyperventilate.

It’s really happening. After days of slapdash training, of Bishop begging his uncle to use whatever influence he has to turn down our plan, of Jezebel pleading with the Family until they miraculously agreed to our plan, of Bishop caving once he realized we really were going to do it with or without him, homecoming night is finally here.

“I’ll get it,” Aunt Penny says, a blur in the hallway.

“Devon’s right on time,” I say. “Now, there’s a shocker.” Especially considering Bianca is hosting a pre-homecoming party the whole universe except me is invited to. Not that I’d go even if I were invited. But Paige doesn’t laugh at my joke, just twists her hands together.

“Wish me luck,” I say, my traitorous voice cracking.

“I still don’t see why I can’t help,” Paige blurts out. Behind her glasses tears well up, which she doesn’t even try to wipe away.

I sigh and swallow my own tears, because one of us has to be the strong one.

“I know, I know,” Paige says. “You never thought you’d see the day when I was begging you to go to homecoming. But I just can’t stand sitting on the sidelines while you’re in danger.”