Hexed (3 page)

I
sit cross-legged at the kitchen table, mechanically eating a bowl of cereal while watching the tiny TV perched on the countertop. It’s practically on mute, because for some reason that I suspect involves alcohol, Aunt Penny’s asleep on our couch.

In the time I’ve spent not sleeping—obsessively flicking between local news stations, hoping to learn more about the death I witnessed—I’ve come to a couple of conclusions: one, the guy committed suicide, like Paige guessed, probably by jumping out a window; two, the note with Mom’s shop’s address was purely coincidental, and three, I’m a complete idiot for thinking otherwise.

Seriously, what does it matter if he visited the shop in the past or planned to visit in the future?

It doesn’t. I’m an idiot. I’m talking Lloyd-and-Harry kind of dumb. But it’s not surprising that I’d jump to radical conclusions, having been raised to believe aliens, witches, and vampires exist.

Still, I watch the news, hoping to find out more. You know. For closure.

“Hey, hon.”

Mom strides into the kitchen wearing a threadbare bathrobe and slippers, with a virtual bird’s nest of hair piled on top of her head. It’s the closest to looking like a normal mom she’ll get all day.

“Turn that down a bit,” she says. “Aunt Penny’s sleeping.”

She pulls a pack of Virginia Slims from the carton she keeps in the freezer so they stay fresh—because aren’t fresh cancer sticks what we all want?—then sinks into a chair across from me, lighting the cigarette pressed between her lips. Her eyes narrow on the TV as she exhales. “What, no MTV?”

I waft the smoke clouding around the kitchen table away from my face. “I thought you were quitting, Mom.”

“I am. Next week. Now, are you going to tell me what’s wrong or just keep trying to distract me? Because no daughter of mine watches the news.”

“Distract you from what?” Aunt Penny stumbles into the kitchen. And such a hot mess I have not yet seen. Her hair, which last night was probably a beautiful updo of blond curls, slumps in a weird, frizzy bun next to her left ear, like even it has a hangover. Black makeup is smudged under her eyes, and her bandage dress rides so high up her thighs I can see panties.

“Whoa,” I say. “What happened to you?”

“Bikini martinis,” she says, falling into the seat next to me. “Let me give you a piece of advice: never have more than one—maybe two—sugary drinks a night, unless you want to puke your face off the next day.”

“That’s excellent advice for my teenage daughter,” Mom says, cutting her a warning look.

Penny rolls her eyes, but when Mom’s not looking, gives me a conspiratorial wink. Most people would assume that Mom and Penny don’t get along well. They’d be wrong. Mom likes to pretend she’s annoyed by Aunt Penny’s carefree lifestyle, but everyone knows she loves being the responsible sister. Meanwhile, Aunt Penny likes to pretend she’s annoyed by Mom’s nagging, but everyone knows she loves having at least one person who cares about where she wakes up in the morning. It’s the perfect relationship.

“So what’s going on with you?” Penny asks, turning to me. “Boyfriend troubles?”

God, and for a minute there I thought I loved her.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I stir Cocoa Puffs around my bowl.

“Please,” she says. “Did he cheat on you? I know an ex-UFC fighter who can kick his ass. Just say the word.”

“Penny!” Mom cries.

“What? He’d deserve it if he cheated.”

“No, it’s not Devon,” I interrupt.

“Bianca, then?” she asks. “She’s been super bitchy lately. What’s up with her?”

“I don’t appreciate swearing in my household,” Mom says, then addresses me. “I know you’re not going to like this, but if Bianca’s treating you badly again, I think I’m going to have to speak to her mother. Now, I know that’s not cool and you have an image to uphold, but if she’s going to keep giving you a hard time like this—”

“It’s not Bianca,” I say.

“Well, what is it, then?” Mom asks.

“Yeah, what is it?” Penny adds.

I look at the two of them, eagerly waiting for me to continue, and take a deep breath.

“It’s, well … I saw something yesterday. When I was driving to the shop from school I saw … I saw someone die. He fell from, well, I don’t know where, a rooftop or a window ledge, I guess. There was so much blood and his legs were definitely broken, and I didn’t do anything, nothing at all, I just froze. This one lady, she checked for a pulse and then this paramedic did CPR, but it was useless—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Mom interrupts. “Take a breath. What are you talking about, Indigo?”

“You saw this?” Penny asks, through the hand clapped over her mouth.

“And I didn’t do anything to help.” Tears well in my eyes so quickly I can’t blink them back.

“Why didn’t you tell me yesterday?” Mom stubs out her cigarette and rounds the table to kneel in front of me, taking my hands in hers.

I shrug. “I don’t know. I guess I was embarrassed I didn’t do anything.”

“Oh, honey,” Mom says, brushing my hair behind my ear.

“You hear about eight-year-olds doing CPR,” I mutter.

“Yeah, and you want to know why you hear about eight-year-olds doing CPR?” Aunt Penny asks. “Because it’s not normal. If it were normal it wouldn’t make the news.”

I think about this a moment, and decide I do love Aunt Penny after all. In fact, I feel so much better having talked about it that I have to wonder why I didn’t say anything sooner.

“You know what the weirdest part is?” I continue. “The guy who died was holding a note with the address for the Black Cat on it.”

Mom’s kohl-rimmed eyes widen. I’ve said too much. Cue the
Twilight
Zone
theme music.

“And with that, I’m out,” Aunt Penny says, standing up. “It’s been a slice. Great to see you, Ind; thanks for the crash pad, Sis.” She gives Mom a wave, which Mom doesn’t even register in her daze.

Awesome.

“It’s a crazy coincidence,” I say, hoping to derail Mom’s line of thought before this becomes a thing. “He must have been on the way to the shop or something.”

“And then just decided to kill himself?” Mom’s eyebrow arches up. “People don’t usually make plans for the future when they’re suicidal.”

I shrug. “Okay, well, maybe he visited the shop earlier in the day, then.”

Mom pauses as if to consider my theory. “Well, I guess that
is
possible. There have been several new customers in the shop the last few days, but it does seem strange.” She rubs her chin in the absent way she does when her wheels are turning. “Could be jinn,” she mumbles. “But why?”

Yes. I’m sure this is the work of genies.

I stand up and sling my bag over my shoulder.

Mom rises to her feet. “Wait. Where are you going?”

“School. And I’m already running late.”

“Are you sure school’s a good idea, sweetie? Maybe you should take a day off, relax a bit.”

“Game day. Bianca would stroke out if I missed practice.”

“The least I can do is cast a protection spell or a—”

“No, I’m fine, really. No circles or spells or anything, okay? I just want to go to school and get back to normal life. I really appreciate it, but can we talk more later? Please?” I walk around her, but she follows me to the door.

“Well, okay … but you call me if you change your mind and I’ll come right home from the shop. And I’m going to put some thought into that death. Toy around with a few theories. Something tells me there’s more to this story than meets the eye.”

All the way to school, my mind is preoccupied with Leather Jacket Guy. But once I arrive, I’m quickly swallowed by the stream of kids piling up the cement steps and through the double doors of Fairfield High, and it’s hard to think of anything at all.

The corridors are an explosion of voices, laughter, and the metal-on-metal sound of lockers slamming closed; the familiarity is comforting, which is weird, because it’s school.

The morning unfolds as it normally does. As usual, homeroom is so boring I consider plucking out my eyelashes for entertainment. As usual, Mrs. Davies has a breakdown when someone starts a spitball fight. As usual, a crowd gathers around Bianca before math class, hanging on every word as she muses about important topics such as the eating contest that took place between Devon and Jarrod at the In-N-Out yesterday and whether it’s considered cheating that Jarrod puked afterward. As usual, the lunch bell rings at 11:45. I start to wonder if the death really happened, if maybe I had a psychotic break after practice yesterday.

I’m forced to pass Paige’s table on the way to my reserved spot next to Bianca at the Pretty People table. Normally I make a point to check my messages on my cell phone, or chat with a friend, or be otherwise Very Busy so that Paige can’t try to engage me in conversation. But I’ve got my tray of processed cafeteria food in hand and my cell phone is tucked in my purse, so I’m forced to pretend to see someone flagging me down and walk quickly toward my table, waiting for my name to be called out or for a hand to snag my arm. Luckily, I make it past the table without incident.

I risk a glance over my shoulder and find Paige in the middle of an animated conversation with Jessie Colburn, the new girl who transferred from Idaho or Nebraska or somewhere else similarly sucky. Paige whispers something in her ear and Jessie doubles over with laughter.

An unfamiliar part of my chest squeezes up into a ball. But I quickly shake off the feeling and force myself to keep moving toward my table, lest anyone notice I’ve paused in the middle of the caf like some sort of psycho.

It’s really great Paige is making a friend, I tell myself. Maybe she’ll finally leave me alone. And she could do worse than Jessie Colburn. She’s very pretty, and if you count “I want to tap that ass” as a compliment, then at least half the football team agrees.

Bianca is so busy loudly recounting the story of the eating contest to the other squad members, who lean in intently as if (a) they haven’t heard the story three times already, and (b) they really want to know exactly what color Jarrod’s vomit was that she doesn’t notice me slip into my spot next to her.

I peel the cellophane back from my caf sandwich, trying to block out Bianca’s voice, but the puke talk filters in anyway, and a childhood memory plays out in my head. I find myself unexpectedly smiling.

“Hey, Bianca,” I blurt out. “Remember that time my mom said that if we ate all our food we’d grow big and strong? And we thought it’d help us grow big boobs too, so we sat in my basement eating until we couldn’t stop puking?”

Bianca cuts me a glare. “No, that doesn’t ring a bell,” she says through her teeth.

Now that it’s out, I realize Bianca’s probably mortified that I mentioned the memory that just moments before had me smiling. I should back off, but for some reason her denial inflames me. “Yeah, yeah,” I say. “Remember it was just after your brother said some girls never grow boobs, and we were so scared we’d be those girls that we scarfed down that whole can of cake icing that was expired by a month?”

Bianca gives me her back and faces her audience again. “So
anyway,
as I was saying—”

The overhead speakers crackle, and Mrs. Malone’s sharp voice comes over the intercom. “Would Indigo Blackwood and Paige Abernathy please report to my office? Thank you.”

The cafeteria calls out
“Oooh”
in unison, like we’re in third grade or something.

“Isn’t that your weird neighbor who won’t leave you alone?” Bianca asks. “What’s going on?”

Great. I’ll only hear about this for, oh, the next century.

I shrug noncommittally before getting up. Paige meets me in the middle of the cafeteria. Neither of us says a word on the way to the office, but tension radiates between us in waves. Cops. It has to be cops. We left the scene of an accident, after all. And maybe it wasn’t a suicide. Maybe it was a murder.
And
I
took
evidence!
I realize with alarm, remembering the note.

The secretary, Mrs. Fields, an approximately one-hundred-year-old woman with a puff of silver hair and round spectacles, glances up from a file she’s reading as we approach.