Authors: Debora Geary
This time, when she spun, it was with the delighted speed of a small child, feeling like Marilyn Monroe and Dorothy of Oz all at the same time.
~ ~ ~
Nat watched as Jennie captured Elsie’s joyous flight on film—and knew she would want a copy of the picture. She smiled at herself, even knowing what she’d call it.
The Sunbeam Formerly Known as Elsie.
That’s not bad,
said Jennie’s amused voice in her head.
Nat got up and walked over to the stool where their resident photographer was still snapping shots, now of the faces watching Elsie.
Jennie smiled in welcome, even as her fingers kept moving.
It’s some very good work you’ve done there.
“Not me.” And that realization still saddened Nat. “I pushed her away. Which seems to have worked out all right, but it’s the friends here who have helped her find her feet.”
“Oh, please,” said Lauren, pulling up a second stool. “You’re not usually so blind.”
Nat blinked. That kind of dismissive tone was very rare in her best friend. “What am I not seeing?”
Jennie held up her camera, a picture framed on the screen. “Look.” Nat stared at the picture of Elsie, a stream of yellow joy, hands stretched to the sky. And finally, she understood. Her former intern’s dance was a living, breathing sun salutation—the deepest embodiment of one of yoga’s most important lessons.
She reached blindly for the hem of her tank top. Pregnancy hormones had her sniffling at the strangest times—and they turned a real reason for tears into a monsoon.
Lauren’s hand touched hers, Kleenex in tow. “Wipe fast—you don’t want to miss the next part.”
Nat swiped just in time to catch their dancer careening to a halt in front of the full-length mirror. Elsie’s gaze met her own astonished eyes in the mirror, traveled to her flushed cheeks and permanent grin, and then drifted lower, over yellow gauze still floating on what Nat was sure were witch-assisted air currents, all the way down to flower-bedecked toes.
She was gorgeous—and as Elsie looked back up, it was clear she’d finally figured that out. Truth streamed from her eyes as she turned to face her audience. “Well, what do you think?”
Nat was pretty sure that for the first time in Elsie’s life, those words were an entirely rhetorical question. One of those chains Melvin talked about had just gone flying.
“I think,” said Helga, breaking the silence, “that you get to keep the shoes.”
Everyone saw the “I can’t” form on Elsie’s lips. And then watched as she walked it back in silent gratitude.
Helga smiled. “Take them dancing—they haven’t had young feet to enjoy them for many years.” She beamed at Elsie for another moment and then clapped her hands. “I don’t think we’ll beat that one on you, so time for everyone else to find an outfit. Jodi, my turquoise flapper dress has your name all over it.”
Nat watched in bemused awe as Helga herded cats, women, and witches with the kind of skill that suggested inborn talent and a lifetime of practice. Time for one yoga chick to go have some fun too. Hopefully something would fit her pregnant belly. She reached for the hand of her best friend—playing dress-up was a lot more fun with a partner.
“Not just yet,” said Lauren under her breath. “Incoming.”
“I asked her to drop off some things from Caro. Forgot about that.” Jennie had paused shooting as well, camera hanging loosely in one hand. She grinned at Lauren. “I vote for being cowards and leaving her to Helga.”
Lauren eyed their resident general. “That could work.”
Nat stopped wondering as she heard the distinctive clomp of Lizard’s shoes coming in the front door and sat back to watch what happened next. Her money was on Helga.
Lizard’s eyes opened wide as she came around the corner. “Did the mall explode?”
“Hmph.” Helga snorted, amused—and ready for battle. “This is hardly mall-quality apparel, dear.” She walked over, tucking her fingers under Lizard’s chin. “Let’s see. Tough eyes, but sensitive, too. Feisty, but I bet you like pretty things, even if you don’t admit it very often.”
“Damn.” Lauren’s whisper sounded highly impressed. “Pegged in one—she’s good.”
Nat grinned, pretty sure she wanted to adopt Helga. “I suspect those two have a lot in common.”
Their fashion general hemmed and hawed, studying Lizard from several angles and totally ignoring the fierce scowl. “Nice tats. Your design?”
“Yeah.”
“An artist, then.” Helga nodded decisively. “And a tiny little thing. Jodi, where’s that purple smocked shirt?”
~ ~ ~
Lizard had no idea what kind of crazy dress-up party she’d just walked into, but Helga’s intentions were obvious. And no way in hell was anything purple and smocked becoming part of her wardrobe, even on a temporary basis.
She took a quick glance around the room. Damn. Clearly no one else was objecting to playing grown-up Barbie dolls. And Jennie and Lauren were moving to cut off her exit. How come she always ended up trapped in these crazy Witch Central ambush parties? This one wasn’t even at her house.
Lizard glared—and then realized Helga had gotten distracted by some stranger in a crazy sequined dress. Time to hide. Pulling her mind barriers down tight, she headed, as casually as possible, for a quiet corner. If she positioned the stool just right, nobody would ever find her behind the mountain of clothes.
She grinned as she reached the stool and popped a flower-laden hat on her head. Camouflage. It was impossible to resist peeking, however.
It was like watching some kind of crazy play, full of color and light and random bits of magic. Elsie sat ensconced in a couch, dressed in duck yellow and the kind of sandals that made Lizard’s feet scream just looking at them. But she was loopy with happiness and riding a serious chocolate high, so maybe the shoes were just for decoration.
Even Caro had gotten into the act, modeling in front of the mirror in a fuzzy orange hat topped with a peacock feather. It even kind of worked on her.
Thanks. I think,
sent Caro dryly.
Damn. Lizard yanked her mind barriers down tighter again, and then snickered as Helga descended on Lauren, something hot pink in her hands. Lauren had the good taste to look properly petrified.
It was like a Monet painting on really good drugs.
The words swirled in Lizard’s mind, a poem calling to be formed.
An afternoon out of Monet—
Flapper lilies and duck-yellow joy.
Dappled color and the quietly insane conversation
of women trying to find pieces of their souls
in a pile of clothes.
Half-dressed bodies and half-naked hearts.
She smiled, riding the glow of words that had found the right order.
Pretty words, girl. And no, I’m not peeking.
Caro’s steady eyes met Lizard’s furious ones. Y
ou leak when you let go to find the poetry.
She’d let down her guard. Lizard felt physically sick.
I’m sorry.
And Caro sounded it.
I didn’t know you held it so close. I’ll be sure not to listen in next time.
There was hurt behind the apology, and a gentle sadness—and she just couldn’t rage at either. Not coming from the woman who lived next door and felt like home. Lizard swallowed her need to puke and tried to grow up.
It’s mostly about you guys anyway, not about me.
Freddie was right—she needed to give her freaking poems some clothes.
Well, we’ll see if it’s about you
, said Caro, hurt subsiding, and something else in its place.
Helga’s coming.
Lizard turned—and quaked. Helga carried purple. And smocked. And some seriously smoking black leather pants. Frack.
~ ~ ~
Jennie turned her camera away from Lauren’s laughing face, catching the sudden tension radiating from her student-in-hiding. Something was up—and whatever it was, Caro had caught a piece of it.
What’s up with Lizard?
Helga’s picked her an outfit.
Jennie snorted. No way that was the whole story—unless it involved turquoise pom-poms, and she was pretty sure the flapper dress was still running around on Jodi.
And what else?
She leaked, and she’d rather not have.
Caro’s mind was uncharacteristically ruffled.
I listened a little too closely and caught a bit of her poetry. I should know better.
Being a mind witch was sometimes a minefield of ethics, but Caro respected lines as well as anyone Jennie knew.
You okay?
Of course.
Caro brushed off the concern.
I got swept up. She’s an artist, that one, and it called to me. No excuses, though, even if she’s painting pictures with her words.
Jennie finally understood. Caro was a marvel with a paintbrush, a vivid and evocative artist. If Lizard had tapped into that with her words, Caro would have wanted to connect, artist to artist and witch to witch. And one delinquent blonde fairy probably wasn’t ready for that. It was too damn bad—Caro was a hell of an artist, and one of the most decent human beings on the planet.
The small shriek from behind the clothing bunker suggested that Helga had found her target. And if that hadn’t caught the attention of everyone in the room, the cursing would have.
“I don’t wear frilly crap. Or stuff that isn’t black.”
“Of course you don’t.” Helga’s voice was motherly, calm, and utterly determined. “Do you want the boots or the sandals?”
“I’m not wearing this stuff.” Lizard sounded like Leo ramping up for a monster toddler tantrum.
“Personally I like the boots best, even if it’s summer.” Helga sounded smooth as glass. “They’re better for stomping around in. We small women need to make the earth shake when we walk—it’s more fun that way.”
“I don’t stomp!”
“Well, you should try it then.” Helga chuckled. “Give a little booty swing while you do it. That’ll make all the cute boys look.” Jennie managed not to inhale her soda. A couple of other people in the room weren’t so lucky.
Lauren leaned over. “Should we be rescuing Lizard?”
“I don’t think so.” Jennie sent out a cautious mindprobe. “It isn’t all temper tantrum. Something going on back there is scaring her at a different level than her fashion sense.” And sucking her in. Whatever Helga had carried behind the mountain was calling to Lizard.
And making her denial really loud.
Jennie winced. Maybe someone really should ride to the rescue. She moved to get up—and then sat down in a rush, hands diving for her camera, as Helga pushed Lizard out of hiding.
Killer black leather boots—the fierce, stomping kind with heels. Leather pants that moved like a second skin. The sexiest purple smocked top Jennie had ever seen. And a black beret that should have been way over the top—and wasn’t.
Lizard looked like a poet. A bombshell rebel poet.
Oh, Helga—what have you done? thought Jennie ruefully, and snapped the picture her fingers were itching to take.
A Doubtful Poet.
Perhaps not as good a title as Nat’s, but she could hardly call it anything else with the angst shining out of Lizard’s eyes.
Then Jennie felt the reverb of Lizard’s mind slamming shut—and the directed flare coming from Caro. The kind that signaled a mindsend with some serious force behind it.
Lizard scowled. Caro mindsent again—with enough power to make Jennie wince, even though she couldn’t hear the words.
The words are none of your business,
sent Caro tautly.
Just mine and hers.
Jeebers,
sent Lauren, catching the byplay.
How’d we end up with a mind-witch showdown at the O. K. Corral?
No idea
. Jennie shook her head slowly, eyes and mind intent on the sudden, silent drama.
But Lizard’s not blocking her.
Caro’s send was just a shade short of forced entry—with enough effort, Lizard could have kept her out. Instead, teeth gritted—she listened.
And finally, grudgingly, nodded.
Something big had been decided. Jennie just had no idea what.
Lizard turned to the room, struck a pose—and recited poetry.
Roses are red, violets are blue,
This room’s a psycho shopping zoo.
The fashion’s a disaster, the mirrors are large,
And somebody left a crazy lady with needles in charge.
The room exploded in giggles from those who knew Lizard only casually—and utter, silent shock from those who knew her best. Of the latter group, only Caro stood unsurprised, the gleam of victory in her eyes. Jennie sent her a look of immense respect. She still had no idea what had been said, but Caro had just pushed a flower through a mountainside.
Now they just had to survive the aftermath, which was in serious doubt for a few nerve-wracking moments. And then the crazy lady targeted in the poem leaned over and adjusted Lizard’s beret. “Your delivery is excellent, my dear. And there’s more of your heart in that poem than you think.”
Lizard spluttered. And reddened. And couldn’t hold back her punk grin.
Jennie shook her head. A room full of mind witches, and it was the little old knitting lady with all the right answers. That just figured.
~ ~ ~
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From: Jennie Adams <
[email protected]
>
Subject: Any lighter, and they’ll be floating.
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Dear Vero,
My darkroom calls—I know I caught truth in my camera lens today, and I can’t wait to see it.
It all started when Elsie went shopping for clothes to match Gertrude Geronimo. Whoever added a bike ride to her Silly Jar was either mystically lucky or very wise. If it was the latter, I want to know how Melvin guesses these things.
Buoyed by the joys of a fast set of wheels, she went looking to buy the right self-decoration for freedom—and then danced for us all. I’ll send you the picture as soon as I have it, but you’ll see something of yourself in it, I think. That bewitching stage presence of yours comes from the same taproot as what we saw in Elsie today.