Rhymes With Witches (2 page)

Oh god, did I have oregano stuck in my teeth?

Mary Bryan smiled back at me. At
me
. At easy, breezy me. I floated out of the room as my thong climbed up my butt.

During Spanish, I reached into my backpack and closed my hand around Dad's present. A small brown teddy bear, just right for an eleven-year-old, wearing a shirt that read I L
OVE
C
AIRO
.

“We've got spirit, yes we do! We've got spirit—how 'bout you?”

Whoops and cheers assaulted me as I walked across campus after class. Clusters of freshman girls, each group with their own senior leader, bounced and leaped and yelled. I searched for Alicia and spotted her on the courtyard of Askew Hall. With her pale skin and inky black hair, she was an easy target. The other girls were doing a step-cross-step kind of movement, but Alicia crossed when they stepped and stepped when they crossed. Her tongue jammed against her lower lip, making it bulge. She did that when she concentrated.

She rammed the girl beside her, and my face heated up for no good reason. It wasn't me who had rammed Chelsea Olsen. It wasn't me who appeared to be nursing a wad of chew.

Stop it,
I scolded myself.
Be nice.
With Alicia, I was always trying to be a better friend than I was.

Footsteps clipped behind me, and I turned to see a breathless
Mary Bryan. Mary Bryan! Her cheeks were pink and her honey-blond hair was slipping from her ponytail. Her striped T-shirt stopped above her belly button, revealing an inch of tummy above her low-slung jeans.

“Jane,” she said. “Hey! I was looking for you.”

I glanced behind me, even though she'd said my name as clear as could be. “You were?”

“Where are you headed? I'll walk with you.”

“Uh, I'm just going to the library. I have a report due for English.” This wasn't true. Really I was just going to hide out until three when Mom picked me up. I would hole up in one of the carrels and reread the Ramona books I loved back in sixth grade.

“Ugh,” Mary Bryan groaned. “Hate English reports. My last one was on that play
Pygmalion
, which, I'm sorry, totally sucked.”

“That's the one with the ‘Rain in Spain' song, right?” I asked. My nerves made me blabber. “Where that professor—what was his name? Oh yeah, Henry Huggins. And he turns a street urchin into a lady and then falls in love with her?”

Mary Bryan's lips came together, and my stupidity hit me like a blow. Mary Bryan was a sophomore. She'd never said more than “hi” to me, and now, when she did, I gave a show-offy speech about a play she probably hadn't even finished.

“Close,” she said, “only you're thinking of the musical, which is
My Fair Lady
. In the play, they don't fall in love.”

“Oh.”

“And it's Henry Higgins, not Huggins,” Mary Bryan said. “For
what it's worth.” Idly, she dipped one finger under the waist of her jeans and scratched her tummy. “Anyway … you want to hang out sometime?”

Her words barely made it past my embarrassment. And when they did, they made no sense. Again I swiveled my head to see who she was really talking to.

“Gooooo, team!” the wannabe cheerleaders cried.

“Team!” echoed Alicia, one beat late.

“Um,” I said. My brain was jammed. “Um …”

“I'll call you,” Mary Bryan said. She checked out the cheerleading girls, who pinwheeled their arms and flung themselves in the air. Her eyebrows edged higher as Alicia landed wrong on her ankle. “Shit!” Alicia cried, audible even from here.

Mary Bryan pulled out of it. “Okay,” she said. “Got to motor.” Over her shoulder she said, “Love the dress, by the way. See ya!”

plainjain:
omg, u will not believe who talked 2 me after school. who came up and talked to ME, on purpose. go on, guess.

malicious14:
who?

plainjain:
mary bryan richardson!!!

malicious14:
wtf?

plainjain:
and get this: she asked if i want 2 hang out sometime.

malicious14:
haha, very funny

plainjain:
she did, i swear. it was extremely freaky.

malicious14:
did she have u confused w/somebody, u think?

malicious14:
jk

plainjain:
oh god, maybe she did. except she did use my name, so what's that all about?

malicious14:
she probably felt sorry for u. she was probably like, “oh, there's that poor sad freshman who's always slinking off to the library.”

plainjain:
fyi, i didn't even go to the library. i was going to, but i changed my mind.

malicious14:
why, cuz u were in a fog of post-mary bryan delirium? listen, jane, she might have SAID u should hang out, but she didn't really mean it. u know that, right?

plainjain:
gee, thanks

malicious14:
i'm just saying. anyway, i've g2g. i twisted my ankle during cheerleading practice, and i've gotta put more ice on it. everybody gave me those fake pity looks, when really they were just glad it wasn't them.

plainjain:
bastards

plainjain:
hey, maybe it was my dress, cuz mb did mention she liked it. u think that's it?

malicious14:
mb? ur calling her mb now?

plainjain:
i bet it was my dress.

malicious14:
ur pathetic. bye!

I shut down the computer and shoved back my chair. It was on wheels, so it rolled back several feet before ramming into the coffee table.

“Jane,” Mom warned from the kitchen.

“Sorry,” I said.

We went through this at least once a day, all because Mom refused to let me put the computer in my room. She did it for my own good, so that I wouldn't become a raving sex maniac with the screen name “Foxxxie LaRue.” This, from my thirty-nine-year-old thong-wearing mother.

She walked barefoot into the den. “All done with your homework?” she asked.

“Didn't have any,” I said. “But I found this awesome site called ‘jailbait.com.' Grown-ups visit it, not just kids, and I can sign up to be penpals with someone in prison. That would be okay, right? I could, like, give back to the community.”

She sat on the worn sofa and patted the cushion beside her. “Come sit with me. Tell me about your day.”

I rose from the computer chair and joined her.

“So what's new in Jane Land?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I said. She scooched over her legs, and I leaned against her. “Alicia's trying out for cheerleading. She really, really, really wants to make it.”

“Do you think she will?”

“Um, that would be a big fat no, sadly enough.”

“Why not?”

“Because the more you want something, the less likely you are to get it. Anyway, she's kind of a spaz.”

Mom stroked my hair. “Jane. You don't truly believe that, do you?”

“I'm not saying it to be mean. She's just not all that coordinated.”

“No, that you never get the things you want.”

I started to reply, then let my mind drift off as she traced circles on my scalp. It was like being little again, when she used to brush my hair after a bath. I'd smell like my special kid's shampoo that came in the fish-shaped bottle, and after the tangles had been combed out, Dad would wrap me in a hug and call me his mango-tango baby.

Mom kept caressing. After several minutes, she said, “Phil called, by the way. He didn't leave a message. He said it wasn't important.”

“Okay,” I said. Phil was my best boy bud. My safety date, not that I ever went on dates with him or anyone else. He'd kind of had a crush on me since we met in seventh grade—he tutored me in science for extra credit—but the good thing about Phil was that we could go on being friends and never really deal with it. I knew Phil would always be there for me.

“And your dad called,” Mom continued. “He was sorry he missed you.” Her fingers slowed in my hair. “He's flying to Zimbabwe tomorrow. He's going to stay in a thatched hut.”

“Great,” I said.

“Jane …”

“Mom.”

She sighed. Now it was her turn not to reply.

I stared at the ceiling with its spiderweb of cracks. I listened to our breaths. Finally, I pushed myself up.

“Guess I better go to bed,” I said.

Mom smiled up at me, although her eyes were sad. “Love you, Jane,” she said.

“Yeah,” I said. “Love you, too.”

Upstairs, I pulled the teddy bear from my backpack. I stroked its fur, then lightly touched its nose.

It wasn't true, what Alicia had said about Dad. I didn't feel
abandoned
, boo-hoo-hoo. Because Dad hadn't abandoned us. That was giving him too much power. He'd just gone on a very long trip.

“Jane, your father needs some space to figure out who he is,” Mom had said when Dad left three years ago. “He needs to do a lot of thinking. Nobody can do the work for him.”

“But … what about us?” I'd asked.

“We'll be fine,” Mom said. As in, case closed.

But another time I'd overheard her talking to her friend Kitty, who'd come over bearing beer and brownies. By that point half a year had gone by, and while Dad sent us checks to cover the bills, he still hadn't come home.

“Carol, you need help,” Kitty had said. “Your gutters are in desperate need of cleaning, and the entire house could stand to be painted. Inside and out. Do you want me to send Dan over to take care of it?”

“No, thanks,” Mom said. “I can handle it.”

“Obviously you can't,” Kitty said. “And you shouldn't have to. Honestly, Carol, this is getting ridiculous.”

“You think I don't know that?” Mom replied. She was using her “marching bravely onward” voice, meant to keep pity at bay. “Yes, the house is falling apart. And yes, Carl should be here to take care of it—among other things, god knows. But I have to remind myself that things could be worse. At least he's not dead.”