Authors: Ariella Moon
My heart slid back into my chest. "Sure." My hand trembled as I pulled a pen from my messenger bag and wrote down my email address since Kali didn't have one. I handed the paperwork back to Mr. Rush. Without a glance, he added it to the stacks of folders and files piled on his desk. I held my breath until Mrs. Scroggins returned, a computer printout and stack of textbooks in hand.
"You lucked out, Aidan. I was able to squeeze you in to each class on your list except Digital Design. The only electives I could fit into your schedule were Chorus and Drama. Which one do you want?"
"I'm tone-deaf."
She thrust a schedule in my hand. "I figured you'd prefer Drama. Don't worry. They hardly ever do musicals."
Relief rushed every cell in my body and lit them like Christmas tree lights. "Thanks."
Mrs. Scroggins's eagle-like features and drawn-on eyebrows softened. She shoved aside some papers on the desk to make room for my stack of textbooks and a booklet on school policies. I stuffed them into my frayed messenger bag, feeling like a pirate stashing stolen bounty.
Mr. Rush checked the clock ticking on the wall. "Last period is about to begin. You might as well start tomorrow."
I stood, scraping back my chair. "May I start now?"
Mr. Rush's eyes widened, and he blinked in Well-I-Never-Thought-I'd-Live-To-Hear-This surprise. "Sure. Admirable attitude." He extended his hand." Welcome to the home of the Wildcats, Mr. Cooper. And stay out of trouble."
"Yes, sir." He had a nice handshake — firm, not crushing, like he didn't need to prove his authority.
He dismissed me with a nod. I hustled out of the office before he discovered I was a fraud and changed his mind about letting me attend his school. Spine straight, I strode through the outer office and nodded to Mrs. Scroggins as I bee-lined for the door.
I can do this. I inhaled the crisp November air. Officially enrolled, I shifted into recon mode. Each school had its own unwritten rules about what or who was cool. Each new campus felt like a war zone, only I never knew who was the enemy.
Enemy
. The word dredged up memories of my old life. Dad's wild schemes, his poor choices in "business associates," and the alcohol he'd consumed when everything had gone sideways. Those were my enemies, and the breast cancer that had stolen Mom.
Dad should have manned up after she died, not spiraled
into the bottom of a wine bottle.
A broad-shouldered kid wearing a varsity jacket bumped into me, jarring me back to the present. "Hey, watch it," the jock warned.
I saluted him. He blinked and moved on. In each school, I figured out the players by reading their energy.
Just like the day I met Kali on a bench in San Francisco. She appeared to be a
step up from the homeless kids
—
relatively clean, eyes still bright with hope and curiosity. She admired the box I had embellished. It was just a small, splintered wooden box I had found outside some high-end shop. I had glued little treasures on it to cover the broken part, items I had found in the park and the gutter
—
crystals from an earring someone had lost, some birch twigs with lichen, a polished stone
—
those
sorts
of things. I liked Kali's energy. So when she said she knew where we could get some free food, Dad waved me off and I followed her.
I'm always reading the energy. It's exhausting.
I surveyed my surroundings. The campus had a decent vibe. Flat. Sprawling. Nothing like my last school, which had steep steps leading up to Greek revival columns and a marble arch over the main door. Jefferson was a mix of new construction and older, beige classrooms. Outdoor halls created by overhangs deflected the California rain.
I checked out the kids walking from sixth period to seventh. A clutch of girls lingered at their lockers, shivering in their short skirts, fuzzy leggings, and clunky Sherpa boots. A serious-faced girl with long blond dreadlocks hurried past me. A high-maintenance-looking brunette caught my eye and winked. "Hey."
"Hey." I flashed her my best heartbreaker smile and kept walking. Ahead, three guys — junior jocks, by the look of them — gave me the once-over. Since they didn't have a gang vibe, I held their gazes until, one by one, they glanced away. They wore jeans and zip-up hoodies over collarless shirts. Cool. I had dressed right. I blended in.
My stomach rumbled with familiar emptiness. Tomorrow at lunch, I would turn on the gypsy charm. Chicks always shared.
Bless them.
I ducked behind the side of a building so no one would see me study the school map. I located the art classroom and walked as fast as I could without drawing attention. As I reached the door, the bell blared. I expelled a long breath.
Ground. It doesn't matter if they love me or hate me. I
won't be around long enough to care. A quick shoulder roll, then I eased inside. I hoped my deodorant hadn
't given out.
The classroom smelled of clay, fresh sawdust, and tempera paint. A glance told me the kids did their art at high wooden tables, in groups of two or three. The loud chatter gave way to curious whispers as I handed my paperwork to the teacher, a thirty-something Hispanic dude with a welcoming smile.
"Aidan.
¿Que pasa?" He extended his hand and gave me a firm handshake. "
I'm Cruz Castellano." He pulled a two-page syllabus out of his desk drawer and handed it to me. Red paint had dried beneath his fingernails, and a splash of white had splattered his brown forearm beneath his rolled-up sleeves.
"This outlines your project options. Basically, I want you to create something representing either your worst nightmare or a memorable dream. I'll show you where the materials are after you've had a chance to look over the assignment. Sit wherever you'd like. Class, meet our new student, Aidan Cooper."
"Hi, Aidan." The group sounded friendly, slightly wired. I knew they were checking out my thrift store jeans and noticing they weren't designer.
"Come join our table, Aidan." A couple of blond celebutante wannabes batted their mascara-laden lashes at me.
I flashed them a thanks-but-no-thanks smile and walked past. Their energy reeked of wild parties and recklessness. Papo's third rule jetted in my brain: avoid trouble. Ditch anyone or any scene liable to attract the cops, or worse, the Feds.
I kept moving, surreptitiously reading the energy in the room. Surprisingly, the person with the cleanest vibe was the waif-like goth hiding in the back. She ignored me. For a second, her black-and-purple hair and the silver stud piercing her right eyebrow threw me. I had never met a goth with such light energy. Which meant either I had lost my touch, or the chick was throwing a glamour.
An MP3 player on the teacher's desk kicked to life. Santana's smooth guitar licks electrified the class. Stools were kicked back and bodies swayed as students resumed work. An African-American kid put down his paintbrush and played an air guitar.
I focused on Goth Girl. Something about her face, delicate and fairy-like beneath her goth makeup, drew me in. "Hi."
She glanced up through spiked bangs. Kohl lined her ice-blue eyes and swirled in curlicues near her temple. Our gazes locked like a lightning strike.
Whoa.
She drew in a quick, audible breath. "Hey." Her voice had an edge, like she expected trouble.
"Is this seat taken?" I gestured toward the empty stool beside her.
"Nah." Her narrow shoulders, encased in a baggy black sweater, rose and fell in a disinterested shrug. The color was harsh against her pale skin. She appeared exhausted, as if she had been up partying or something. "Go for it."
The fluorescent lights caught her silver necklaces. A pentacle dangled from one chain, a Star of David from another, and a spiral goddess from the third.
"Not fair," I said as I lowered my messenger bag to the littered linoleum floor. "You know my name, but I don't know yours."
"Sarah Miller, but everyone calls me Salem." She extended her hand, the pads of her fingers caked with clay. Still tingling from the jolt, I battled the urge to bring her fingers to my lips. I shook her hand instead.
"Why do they call you Salem?"
She rolled her eyes. "In the fifth grade I crossed out 'Remember the Alamo' on Tommy Deitch's notebook and wrote 'Remember Salem.'"
"The witchcraft trials." I nodded. Under my breath I muttered, "Magdalena would love you, even if you are a
gadjé."
Her brow crinkled, and she narrowed her eyes into a ticked-off squint.
"Gadjé?"
Way to blow it. I glanced around to see if anyone had overheard us. No one seemed to have noticed. I pressed my hand against my heart. "
Grandmother is Old World. Unless you come from her village, you're considered a
gadjé, a foreigner.
" I failed to mention Magdalena's "village" was a 1967 VW van.
Salem's brow remained wrinkled, and I squirmed under her brutal stare. "Aidan sounds Irish."
I rubbed my hand against the back of my neck. "It is Irish. I'm named after my maternal grandfather."
I use it like breadcrumbs,
in case Bronwyn ever tries to find me.
Salem plucked a toothpick off the table and incised a vine design on the female figure she was modeling in clay.
"Gadjé sounds Russian or something.
"
Romanian, I mentally corrected.
I had to pick the table with the smart chick.
I imagined I felt the sting of Papo's hand against my temple and heard his voice inside my head —
Nico, you
idiot!
Never forget
my second
rule. We are Gypsies only in the booth, only when we sell our wares.
Outside the festivals and faires, be careful. Pass for something else. You know what
will
happen if your true identity
is discovered. As if I could forget. The last thing I wanted was to be thrown into the foster care system or s
ent into a group home. I'd rather deal with the enemy I knew than the one I didn't.
"Mixed blood." I stared down at Salem's artwork, avoiding her gaze. She had sculpted a figure about seven inches tall with its arms raised like parenthesis above its head. Even unfinished, it throbbed with power. "Nice work."
Salem handed me a damp paper towel so I could wipe the clay off my hands. "I'm going to add a stone sphere so it looks like she's holding the Earth over her head."
"Tough trick, balancing the world." The piece definitely had goddess energy. I began to understand Salem's interest in the witchcraft trials. What I didn't get was the goth façade. With her clean aura, she had to be Wiccan. Light magic. Which meant she believed in karma and that everything you put into the world came back to you threefold.
Man, would she hate Papo. She'd hate me, too, if she thought I was anything like him or my father.
I stared blankly at the syllabus, my spirit suddenly so heavy I slumped on the hard wooden stool. It didn't matter whether Salem liked me or not. I wouldn't be here long enough to get attached to anyone, especially not to a witch pretending to be Goth Girl.
"What grade are you in?" She pushed back her sleeves, revealing a silver leaf design on her left wrist.
"Tenth. You?"
"Ninth."
A male hand clasped my shoulder. I jerked away, expecting to be hit.
"Aidan.
Amigo." Concern tinged Mr. Castellano
's voice. His hand dropped to his side and he changed his tone, sounding like a cowboy soothing a wild horse. "Ready for a tour of the art supplies?"
Heat flooded my cheeks. My gaze dropped to the assignment sheet.
"What medium do you prefer?" Mr. Castellano prodded.
"Wood," I said without hesitation.
The teacher's eyes brightened. "Excellent choice! I can't wait to see what you do with it." He scrutinized Salem's sculpture. "Is the armature strong enough to support your stone sphere?"
"I hope so." Salem flicked the teacher a quick sideways look. "Guess we'll find out."
Mr. Castellano picked at the paint on his forearm. "Discovery is a big part of the learning process." His attention shifted back to me. "We work on a miniscule budget, so the only wood I have are pine planks."
My spine straightened. "No problem. I'm used to making do."
Mr. Castellano stroked his mustache. "Let's check the cupboard. If you don't see what you want, then I'll root around my garage. My wife claims I'll end up on one of those reality shows if I don't stop hoarding odds and ends."
He seemed so eager to help that my spirits lifted. My lips separated into a genuine smile, encompassing Salem. She pretended to focus on her goddess figure, but not before a fleeting grin transformed her into a winsome fairy princess.
A swarm of fireflies took wing inside me. I imagined Salem with me in the booth, selling her goddess figures beside my carved altars and keepsake boxes. Kali would lure in the tourists with her palm and tarot readings. We'd be free of Magdalena and Papo.
Papo. Rule Number One gonged inside my head: don
't get attached, not to anything or anyone.
Get real, Aidan. I stood and followed Mr. Castellano. Tomorrow I
'd sit somewhere else, somewhere far from Fairy Goth Girl. After all, I never knew when Papo and Magdalena would force Kali and me to pull up stakes and move. A whim or a vision, and our exit date could turn into tomorrow. Or tonight. The last thing I needed was to lose someone else I cared about.
Reluctantly, I slammed shut the door to my heart before it could crack open any wider.
Chapter Five
Riding in the backseat of Mrs. O'Reilly's Volvo after school, I fidgeted with my pentacle keychain. An eternity seemed to pass before the station wagon rattled over the cobblestone motor court and halted in front of Parvani's three-story Tudor mansion.
"Bye!" Parvani stepped out. As soon as she slammed the car door behind her and strode past the trickling faux-Tuscan fountain, I grabbed Evie's wrist.