Authors: Ariella Moon
"Nico. Kali." Papo's voice cut through my thoughts. "You know the drill."
Yeah. We know it. I removed my seatbelt and pushed open the van
's door. Cold air knifed through my baggy jacket and jeans. I flipped my collar up and tried to man up and shrug off the chill. If we stayed here long, which we wouldn't, I'd need something warmer. From what I had seen, this didn't look like a thrift store kind of town.
I locked onto Kali's let's-get-this-over-with gaze. Fatigue deadened her jade-green eyes. Her mascara had smeared during our pit stop in Reno, giving her a
Night
of the
Living Dead vibe. She pulled a spice jar from her purse and poured a small mound of star-white sea salt onto her palm.
"Ready." She stood just outside the ring of light spilling from the street lamp. Already mist shrouded her long, dark hair.
We circled the perimeter, trudging clockwise, ears pricked for a dog's bark or the slide pump of a shotgun. Although I had performed the same Don't-See-Us spell over two dozen times, the hair on my nape still stood on end. The houses were small and close to each other. We made our way to the backyard where the fence was high, but never high enough if a neighbor got too curious.
A rat crossed in front of my boot and scurried into the ivy rimming the back lawn. I shook off the heebie-jeebies and kept going. Behind me, Kali sprinkled salt, creating a circle of protection.
"They're in," she said. Flashlight beams, visible through the uncovered windows, arced through the dark rooms. Kali frowned at the shadowy house. "Someday I'm going to live in a real home with running water and electricity."
"We both will." I resumed uttering the spell, but flashed on how it would be tomorrow when Kali lied about her age and sweet-talked some guy into giving her a waitress job. She always worked hard, devoured the free food, took spit baths in the restaurant bathroom, flirted big, and raked in the tips.
We halted in front of a wooden side gate. Kali dumped more salt in her hand as I groped for the latch. Luckily, it wasn't locked. A solid shove and the gate creaked open.
"Looks like the previous owners had gone for zero maintenance," I whispered. Gravel carpeted the entire side yard. I resumed silently chanting the spell and prayed no one would hear our footfalls as we crunched across the rocks. A pool filter pump roared to life on the other side of the fence. My pulse jumped like a hotwired car engine. Behind me, Kali swore. With our footsteps masked by the loud hum of the pump, we increased our pace, not stopping until we reached the front gate.
"Padlocked." I stepped aside, and Kali tipped the remaining salt into my hand. We both knew we had to go forward. If we retreated, the spell would be reversed, putting us all in peril of being discovered. I, for one, had no desire to be arrested for trespassing.
Though in juvenile hall, I might have a real cot to sleep on and breakfast in the morning.
Kali extracted a nail file from her scuffed khaki messenger bag and set to work. "Easy peasy." She clicked open the lock and removed it. I gave her the little mound of salt, and we finished setting up the perimeter.
Kali paused before the front door. "How cold do you think it will be inside?"
"At least as cold as it is out here."
"Six more months," she said, referring to when she'd turn eighteen.
"You should escape now. It's not like they support you or anything."
She ruffled my hair. "Then who'd look after you, young man?"
"Me. Same as always." I lowered my voice. "Thanks for the assist back in the van."
"About San Francisco? I was looking out for myself. I wanted to go to bed."
"Sure you were."
She pursed her lips, like she always does when she can't think of a comeback. "I'm going to see if any of the toilets still flush." She brushed the remaining salt from her hands, then pulled a small flashlight out of her bag.
"Think I'll find a tree," I said.
"Yuck. Too much information!"
After the door closed behind her, I cupped my hands over my mouth and tried to warm them with my breath. I hated foreclosed homes. Anger and anguish clung to the walls. The energy pulsed with lost dreams. I didn't want to breathe it in. I didn't want it sticking to me like more bad luck.
An owl in the neighbor's birch tree
hoo-hooed
. I stepped away from the porch to get a better look. The huge bird rotated its face toward me.
Hoo. Hoo-hoo-hoo. Hoo.
Goose bumps sprouted up my arms.
Owl magic. Maybe it's a good omen. I glanced at the neighboring houses, alert for any faces peeking out from pulled back curtains. Clear coast.
"Hey," I whispered, my head tilted back. "If you're going to be my totem, you should know my real name. It's Aidan. I wasn't called Nico until five years ago, on my tenth birthday." I rubbed my hand over my heart to stem the ache. "It was the last time I saw my real family."
Chapter Three
All weekend, nerve-jangling post-apocalypse silence had permeated the house. My parents had been so afraid they'd miss a phone call from Amy, they had kept the television and stereo off. Despite having cell phones, neither of my parents had gone out. Which I kind of understood. What if Amy nosedived and landed back in the emergency room, or in lockdown? Not the sort of thing you wanted to hear while standing in line for groceries, which we needed, since we had been in Massachusetts for so long.
I kept to my room. But the tension seeped through the walls and commando-crawled under the door. My gift for rhyming spells evaporated. My stomach cramped. I tackled my three-week homework backlog and hoped a cure for the grimoire would magically manifest. It didn't.
At least the spell book didn't worsen. On Monday before I left for school, I stashed it in an oversized boot box and hid it in the closet. "Do not set the house on fire while I'm gone," I warned as I traced a pentagram on the closet door.
Evie cornered me on my way to Drama. Even though I had seen her earlier in the day, it still took me a second to recognize her. On Halloween Eve she had switched back to her real hair color, strawberry blond, and had stopped wearing her late father's camouflage cap. She appeared so normal, it threw me.
"Any news?" Evie asked.
"Not since we had English together, or lunch. It's not like I can call home and ask the spell book how it's feeling."
Evie bumped her shoulder against mine, something no one else would dare do. "Silly." She leaned closer and whispered in my ear, "I meant, any action on the love spell?"
"No, Prince Charming has yet to make an appearance."
Evie scrunched her brows. "What about Amy? Any word?"
I shook my head. My cell phone was off, and I planned to keep it off. This way I could pretend Amy was fine, and there was zero chance she'd come home and I'd zip-line back to withering in her shadow.
I must have scowled, because Evie said, "Maybe Amy's life wasn't as perfect as you thought."
"You haven't seen her case full of water polo trophies and academic achievement awards. She was president of everything at this school. Miss Popularity."
"Does she know anyone at M.I.T.?"
"She's met her roommate. I'm sure she's making other friends."
"Maybe." Sadness seeped into Evie's expression, and I knew she was thinking about her dad. "What if Amy's roommate hadn't called for an ambulance? Imagine how you'd feel if Amy had died." Evie's voice cracked on the word
died
. Before I could formulate a response, she peeled off, her chin down, and headed for Yearbook.
I felt awful, as if I had kicked a kitten.
"What did you do? Put a hex on her?" Pilar, the female lead in the recent school production
Of Mice and Men
, opened the door to the multipurpose room. She blinked down at me with her huge doe-like eyes.
For once, I dropped the tough girl act. "Nah. Fresh out of hexes today."
"Good." Pilar held the door open as I slinked past. "Because we'll probably get assigned a new play today."
"I'm sure you'll ace the audition." Maybe if I were nice to Pilar, I'd stop feeling like I had "Worst Sister and Friend" stamped on my forehead.
"Do you think so?" Pilar gushed, her shoulders surging toward her hoop earrings.
"Absolutely."
"Wow. Thanks." Pilar bounded for the stairs leading up to the stage.
Our teacher, Mr. Peters, yelled from the back of the auditorium, "Everyone to the stage!"
Weighed down by guilt and my black combat boots, I clumped up the stairs and stole the first available spot at the edge of the proscenium. I shoved my heavy backpack behind me to use as a backrest.
Moonfaced Mr. Peters handed Pilar a stack of assignment sheets to pass out. "Shakespeare, ladies and gentlemen!" Half the group groaned. "Read and summarize three of the five plays I've listed."
My fight-or-flight instinct jumped to life. The meter needle arced toward flight. I glanced at the red exit signs dotting the auditorium.
"Anyone who plagiarizes from the Internet or store-bought study guides will receive an automatic F."
The assignment sheets made their way down my row. A sinking feeling settled over me. This would entail massive reading. Difficult reading. Practically English-as-a-foreign-language reading. I wiped my clammy palms on my tights so my sweat wouldn't stain the paper.
"Summaries are due on Wednesday. I have some copies of the plays here. The rest, you can score at the library." Mr. Peters upended his nylon messenger bag, and it vomited stapled booklets onto the stage.
Students swarmed the pile like yellow jackets at a barbeque. I hung back. Studying my chipped black nail polish, I affected a bored expression. Let everyone think I was too cool to join the mosh pit. Hopefully they wouldn't guess the truth: Chaos scared me.
When the scramble ended, I plucked the leavings off the floor:
The Taming of the Shrew and
Romeo and Juliet. An anti-feminist manifesto and a romantic tragedy… just what I needed. Maybe I could get
A Midsummer Night's Dream from the library.
"How long do the summaries have to be?" a hulking kid named Nazario asked.
"One to two typed pages per play, double spaced, one-inch margins." Mr. Peters resettled his tortoiseshell glasses on his pudgy nose. Something in his eyes made me nervous, as if the summaries were just the opening salvo. "You may use the rest of the period to work on the assignment. Let's get going, people."
I exhaled a long breath. I could do this. Getting anxious would just make the reading more difficult, like with Evie and her math anxiety. Only no one knew I had a problem. Teachers used to tell my parents I didn't try hard enough. Then they'd
tsk-tsk over how they knew I must have
loads of potential. After all, look at Amy.
I pushed back the sleeve of my black pullover sweater and examined my watch. Twenty-five minutes until I could escape to Art. With a sigh I grabbed my backpack, clumped down the stairs, and headed for the back of the auditorium. I snagged a seat far from the other students and pulled out my ear buds. The only way I'd be able to struggle through sixteenth-century English would be to concentrate in silence.
Let them think I'm listening to music. I hunkered down, ready to do battle.
Chapter Four
"Your transcripts have been lost, Mr. Cooper?" Mr. Rush, the principal of Jefferson High School, eyed me over his cluttered, aluminum-edged, wood veneer 1960s-era desk.
"Yes, sir." I contorted my face into what I hoped resembled a concerned expression. "Some problem when the school switched to a new computer system. They'll send you copies of the handwritten transcripts as soon as they track them down."
Which will be never, because I've moved thirty times, attended eleven elementary schools, six middle schools, and two other high schools before I landed here.
"Hmm."
Dude. Just believe me. I pulled a folded list from my jeans pocket and handed it to him. "
These are the classes I was taking." I perched on the edge of my seat while Mr. Rush unfolded the binder paper and studied the list.
"English Two. Geometry." His gray-flecked brows furrowed beneath his comb-over. "Latin 2?"
I straightened my spine. "Yes, sir."
"Hmm. Physical Education, Biology, Digital Design, and 3-D Art." Mr. Rush lowered the paper. "We should be able to accommodate you." He pushed a button on his desk phone and said into the receiver, "Mrs. Scroggins, could you come in here, please?"
He'd barely hung up when the secretary in the outer office whisked in, all no-nonsense and businesslike. Mr. Rush handed her the list. "Please see if we have room in these classes for Mr. Cooper."
Mrs. Scroggins's bangle bracelets clacked together as she took the sheet. She smelled faintly of cloying spice perfume, and her high heels clicked against the scuffed linoleum as she retreated to her computer.
"The young lady who signed you in is your legal guardian?" Mr. Rush stared at me over the forged gas bill and Kali's signature on several school forms. "Your parents are both deceased?"
"Yes, my cousin is my legal guardian." I shifted in my seat. Mention of my parents, my
real parents, reopened a fathomless ache where my heart used to be. I shoved it aside — a box I
'd open later.
Focus. "
Sorry she couldn't stay to meet you. She had to get to work."
And she's not actually my cousin. But Kali's the only member of the
"family"
who has ever helped me out. Or worked.
"You've listed a Bronwyn Stephens as your emergency contact, but I see no phone number."
"My aunt lives in Los Angeles. I don't have her number with me."
I wish I did. She's my only living relative,
and I have no idea how to find her.
Mr. Rush frowned. "Phone numbers do not seem to be your strong suit, Mr. Cooper." He handed the forms back to me. My heart dropped to my knees. "Give me an email address where we can send your guardian school bulletins."