Season of the Witch (16 page)

And it does help. The blast of the water drowns out the panic, leaves me stripped of emotion.

Chloe died because she was hit by a truck, I think tiredly as I wrap myself in a towel. You were not driving the truck. You did not kill her. You got no sleep last night and you are really not in your right mind.

“Take a nap,” says my mom when I come out of the bathroom.

“Mom, it’s lunchtime.” My voice is all croaky and raw.

My phone rings. I hesitate, because it’s probably someone wanting to do the grief freak about Chloe, and for a million reasons, I’m not up for that.

I look at the name. It’s Cassandra. I wave my mom away.

“How are you?” she says, her voice strong and cheerful. “Feel like a walk in the park?”

We meet by the reservoir in Central Park. It’s a gray, chilly afternoon. Diehards are jogging around and around the huge pool of water, which is surrounded by a chain-link fence—I guess so people don’t fall in.

Cassandra stands directly on the path, slurping a smoothie from Fruitopia. When joggers glare as they make their detour past her, she smiles around the straw.

But when she sees me, she comes over and gives me a one-armed hug. “Hey,” she says.

Tearing up, I put my head on her shoulder. “Oh, my God, Cassandra. Oh, my God.”

“Come on now,” she croons. “Keep it together.”

“What did we do?”

I look at her, because I really need her to answer that question.

She takes a slurp of her smoothie. “No one’s going to arrest us for chanting some half-assed poem.”

I stop, move away from her. “Half-assed poem or not, Cassandra, Chloe is dead. Okay? Seriously—”

“ ‘She’s really most sincerely dead,’ ” sings Cassandra in a Munchkin voice. “ ‘Tra, la, la, la.’ ”

“Cassandra!” I shout, trying to jolt her into understanding what’s happened here.

But then I think, Maybe Cassandra knows exactly what’s happened here.

She smiles.

“This is not what I asked for,” I insist. “I never wanted Chloe—”

Cassandra narrows her eyes. “Really? Because I seem to remember the D word coming up.”

“From
you
.”

“So, what exactly does ‘gone forever’ mean?”

Struggling to stay calm, I say, “You said you understood it was a metaphor.”

I search her eyes, looking for some sign of my friend. I can’t tell: Is she totally messing with me? Is this her way of dealing with what’s happened? I think, Cassandra, please tell me we did not use a killing spell. Just say the freaking words.

But she just nods. “Ah.” And starts walking again.

Running behind, I say, “Tell me that’s not what we asked for.”

She shrugs. “You never know how these things are going to play out. We wanted her energy stopped.”

“We said blocked.”

She rolls her eyes.

“There’s a
difference
.”

Cassandra puts her hands in her pockets. “Maybe that was the only way to keep her from harming you. Maybe her will was that strong.”

I feel like I’m falling. As if I’ve backed away from the cliff’s edge, only to tumble off the other side. “No,” I whisper. “No.”

Cassandra whirls around. “
Why
are you so hung up on this? How can you, of all people, feel guilty? Do you have total amnesia about what this chick did to you?”

My head hitting the rim of the toilet, the feeling that I was going to puke it hurt so bad. Shit floating in the water, past my face. Yes, I think, she deserved it, she deserved all of it.

“Okay?” Cassandra puts a hand on my arm. “Really, this is not someone to weep over.”

Everyone’s someone to weep over, I think, at least to someone.

“This is not happening,” I whisper. “It just can’t be.”

“I get why you’re anxious,” says Cassandra in a “Now, let’s be practical” voice. “Power is scary. In some ways, it’s easier to be the victim.”

I’m so tired it’s hard to put words together. But I manage to say, “There’s an in-between, isn’t there? The normal person who doesn’t hurt other people, just does her own thing?” Like, do we all have to be predators and prey? Are those the only choices?

“There are a lot of people who like to think that’s what they are. Personally, I think it’s better to know you have the power to hurt people—and use it well.” She hugs me, then looks deep into my eyes. “Which we
did
.”

Cassandra’s certainty is the only thing I have to hold on to right now. I close my eyes, try to stop thinking about it.

I hear Cassandra say, “Okay. Tomorrow?”

Oh, God—school. Everyone freaking out. Oliver. I say, “I’m calling in sick.”

“No, that’s what we don’t do. You have to go. And everyone’s going to be all Boo-hoo, Chloe was such a great girl. And you’re going to feel like crap. But when that happens? Remember what she did to you. Remember who she really was. And know you did the right thing.”

She walks away. Alone on the path, I watch her. And think, What
did
we do, Cassandra? What did you make me do?

And the answer comes.

Nothing you didn’t want
.

That night, I check out people’s Facebook postings on Chloe.
I can’t believe this! Her poor family! Rest in peace, sweet Chloe! You were the best, the most beautiful!
At first, it hits me like a kick in the gut: all this hysterical love for my total enemy.

But then the pain twists into anger. What are these idiots talking about? Sweet? Best? Give me a break. We need a serious reality check here.

I put my fingers on the keyboard, think, Yeah, rest in peace, Chloe. Lord knows you were such an angry, spiteful bitch, you never gave anybody peace when you were alive.

My fingers are hovering over the keys, ready to type, when there’s a knock on the door. I jump, squeak, “Yeah?”

My dad puts his head in. “Hi there.”

Flustered, I say, “Oh, sorry, is it dinner or—”

“Nope,” he says calmly, coming in and closing the door. “Just wanted to see how you are.”

I grope for an acceptable answer. “I’m okay. I mean—”

My dad watches me. He knows he’s being lied to.

And it occurs to me, my dad knows what it feels like to hurt someone badly. Maybe he could get what I’m feeling right now.

“I didn’t like her very much,” I say tentatively. “Chloe. She was kind of mean to me, if you want to know the truth.”

My dad sits down on my green chair. “How so?”

I shake my head, a refusal to go there. “So I don’t feel so sad that she died, but I feel … bad that I don’t feel sad. Or—”

“That maybe it was your fault in some way,” says my dad.

I look up, frantic to hear that this could not be my fault. I stare at him. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs. “Something awful happens to someone we didn’t like, we become convinced we’re somehow responsible. It’s natural.”

“What if you actually wished them dead?” I ask. I look over at my little crystal creatures. “Like, you asked the universe to make it happen?”

“You only asked the universe?” jokes my dad. “Not an actual hit man?”

“Can’t really afford a hit man on my allowance,” I say.

“Then I think you’re in the clear.”

I smile, wish I actually felt relieved.

Then my dad says, “Want to tell me what was going on with this girl?”

I should have expected this question. But I’m caught off guard. I can’t tell my dad about Oliver. Cheating is just not something we can talk about. And also, if he knew, he might take back those magic words: “I think you’re in the clear.”

I wave my hand. “Just dumb who-likes-who stuff. Seemed like a big deal at the time.”

My dad looks at me, waiting to see if he’ll get any more. I keep the smile on my face. Thanks, Dad! All better now!

Finally, he stands up, says, “Okay, well, if you want to talk more, you know where to find me.”

“Yup.”

When he’s gone, I look back at the computer screen, the empty box where I started to write my hateful thoughts. I hit refresh.
Instantly, more grief floods the screen.
We heart you forever, Chloe! We’ll never forget you! I can’t stop crying!

There is no room for what I feel, no place I can say what I truly think.

I push away from my desk. I know for a fact I could post every single nasty thing Chloe did to me and people would go, “Why are you being so horrible? Why are you being so mean?”

I pace, buzzing with anger. I see my crystal animals on the sill. My dad’s sweet little presents to his sweet little girl. I can’t stand how ridiculous and childish they look.

My fingers reach, close on Phoebe the unicorn. With one monstrous swing, I hurl her across the room. She shatters against the wall; little chunks of glass land on my bureau, fall onto the rug. I knew she would break; I wanted to break her. But seeing her destroyed, I burst into tears.

Going to the bureau, I try to put her back together. Little Phoebe, my symbol of purity. With stupid, clumsy fingers, I push the shards into a pile, whimpering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Oh, God, will you forgive me? Please?” Bits of glass cut my fingertips.

“I’m sorry,” I say again to Phoebe’s broken body. “I’m sorry. I know that doesn’t mean anything, it doesn’t fix it, but oh, God, I am so sorry.”

THE NEXT MORNING BEFORE SCHOOL, I carefully peel the bandage from my hand. Today is going to be hell, and I don’t want to draw attention to myself in any way. As it comes off, I see the blood, red and brown, on the white gauze. The cut is still raw and ugly-looking. A yellow crust of pus is forming around the edge. I wipe it with alcohol, feel the sharp sting of cleansing. Then I put a Band-Aid on.

The fact is, I will have a scar.

Yesterday, I thought there was no way I could go to school. But a numbness has settled in. I feel like someone could come right up to me and scream in my face, “You killed Chloe! You did it!” and I would just say “Yeah” in a lifeless voice. I don’t feel good about that. Or righteous. I just don’t feel. If caring is water—nourishing, life-bringing—I am sun-bleached bone.

I meet Ella on the corner. Her eyes are red, her face blotchy. When she sees me, the tears well. “God, I’m sorry,” she says, wiping them away.

“What for?”

“I don’t know,” she says miserably. “Crying for someone who was so awful to you.”

“Oh, God, Ella,” I say tiredly. “There is no right thing. Feel what you feel.”

As we start walking, she says, “Just, I’ve known her since second grade, you know? And I just can’t believe—it’s like, no, we’ll get to school and she’ll be there.”

Wouldn’t that be nice, I think.

Ella says, “Only she won’t, and that’s so hard to get my head around.”

I want to be a good friend to Ella, but I find myself tuning out. Wondering things like, Will Chloe come back to haunt me? Will her spirit follow me forever? In a world where feelings can kill, it seems entirely possible.

Chloe will haunt me, I think. Maybe not as some ghostly apparition going
Woo, woo!
But what happened to her will always be part of who I am, something I’ve done. I wanted her gone; now she’ll never be gone.

Then I hear Ella say, “The funeral’s tomorrow afternoon. Are you going?”

“I don’t know,” I say, meaning absolutely not.

“Really?” Ella bites her lip. “It kind of seems like the thing to do.”

“The funeral will be for her family and friends,” I say. “I’m neither.”

“Right. Right.” Ella nods. “Would you …?”

“What, Ella?”

In a rush, she asks, “Would you mind if I went? I know Chloe was totally evil to you, and I do hate her for that.”

“Whatever.”

“But I don’t know, I kind of want to say good-bye? They’re having it at that big church on Fifty-Third and Lex, near where we took test prep. How weird is that?”

I manage to respond, “Yeah, weird.”

“So I would like to go? But only if it’s okay with you. I don’t want you to feel like I’m taking Chloe’s side or anything.”

I stare at her, amazed that she can still be caught up in sides and who likes who and who’s whose friend. I want to scream, We’re talking about a funeral, because Chloe is dead. She’s dead because of me. So if you liked her at all? You should hate my guts.

“You should go,” I say. “You cared about her. Honor that.”

“But I feel like Chloe doesn’t deserve for me to care about her,” says Ella.

“Forget that. Honor that you care at all,” I tell her. “Honor that your heart works.”

As we approach the school, I see kids standing in large groups out on the street. Kids are crying, holding one another. Others are just sharing what they know in anxious, hushed voices. Inside, it’s more of the same. Even the shy, out-of-it kids who had no reason to love Chloe are hushed and sad-looking. It’s just as Cassandra predicted. Everyone is united in their grief.

I leave Ella with a small pack of Chloe mourners, then hurry upstairs to find someplace to hide. I never should have let Cassandra talk me into coming to school today.

I will not pretend to care, I want to scream. She was horrible. She beat me up. She hurt me.

Our grade spends all morning in assemblies and small groups, talking about what it means that Chloe is dead. We are reminded
that drinking is bad. That if you do drink, take a cab. Or better yet, stay where you are.