Blood Magic (5 page)

He pulled a pen out of his jeans pocket and scratched out the word
acting
. “That bitch.” Replacing the pen, he continued, “Wendy Cole keeps insisting we have a vote, but I was vice prez, and when the president gives up on you, the vice just steps in.”

“Wow. Drama in drama club.”

“Yeah, well, your girlfriend Silla is in the show. That make you want to come?” He sneered.

I liked that Eric was kind of an asshole, too. And I needed something to do after school to avoid Lilith. “Sure. Where?”

“After school, in the auditorium. Later, okay? I gotta find Wendy.”

As he marched down the hallway, I thought,
Where the hell are they hiding an auditorium?

School rushed by in its usual blur. Since Saturday night, I’d spent every moment I could up in my bedroom, hunched over the spell book and reading it out loud the way I used to read scripts to memorize my lines. I read cover to cover, and then over again, brushing my fingers against the indentations my dad’s pen had made in the thick paper. The patterns swam in my imagination, and I could hear his voice:
Sympathetic magic works with our own associations. Quicken the tincture with a drop of blood. Draw poison out with fire, bind with red ribbons. Fresh beeswax is best for transformations. Drop of blood. Hint of blood. Cut. Sacrifice. Give
.

So many questions I had for him. What does sympathetic magic mean? Why is ginger for burning curses away, and salt best for protection and neutral spells? What do you mean by
neutral
?

It all intruded on my school day, memories pressing at me. Not just of reading, of Dad, but of the moment the magic had unfurled that dead leaf, and of Nicholas Pardee rising out of the shadows where he’d crouched like a goblin. They eclipsed
the video Mr. Edwards showed in AP History, and Physics lecture, and even Mrs. Sackville’s discussion on
The Return of the Native
. I tried to push all of it out of my mind and listen to Sackville’s questions about the nature of misfits and sexual identity, but everyone in my classes seemed pale and stony. They were mere gravestones, and only the magic was real.

And tonight, I’d show it to Reese. I’d prepared all I could, read through everything. Now I needed Reese. Needed to prove to him it was real so that he could stop hating Dad, so that he could help me unlock all the secrets. I’d resurrect something more impressive than a leaf, and he’d have to believe me.

Finally it was three-thirty, and I escaped to the auditorium. There, I could pull on the masks of the theater and lose myself in the words that weren’t my own. It was a relief to sit on the edge of the stage, to dangle my feet as Wendy and Melissa argued about whether all the songs from
Wicked
were overdone on the audition circuit. Their conversation echoed up the rows and rows of red seats, and the smells of old paint and musty curtains grounded me back into my body. I’d always loved the theater. Here, I could be anyone, not just the girl who’d found her parents murdered on the floor, not just the skinny, fading kid with dropping grades and choppy hair, but Ophelia or Laura Wingfield or Christine Daaé. Pretending I was someone else, that their words were my words, their heartaches and loves my own; it made me feel like I knew who I was.

Or it had. When I’d been Silla Kennicot: most likely to star in movies, president of the drama club, and forensics champion.

Eric walked in with Nicholas Pardee and raised his middle
finger in my direction. I frowned, but Wendy giggled. “He probably found my flyers,” she said.

Melissa laughed, too. “I saw that.”

I pulled my feet up onto the stage and sat cross-legged, watching Nicholas. I’d been thinking of him that way, the way he’d introduced himself to me in the cemetery, of him being something that belonged there, with a long, old-fashioned name to go with it. But here in the real world, everyone was calling him just Nick. And away from all the death and blood and magic, it was hard to see him as anything more mysterious. It suited the way he walked between the rows of seats and the sharp way he sat down next to Stokes, the teacher, while Eric stomped up the stairs and glared at the three of us. “Cute flyers,” he said.

“Like your butt, sweetie.” Wendy kissed the air in his direction.

Flipping her off again, Eric joined Trent upstage, and they kicked off their shoes to start some warm-up stretches.

“I want my witches front and center!” Stokes called before turning to Nick, who stood beside him.

It was good I knew the layout of the stage well, because I didn’t stop watching Nick even to head out with Wendy and Melissa to wait for our cue. He was tall, even all cramped up in the small theater seat where he’d sat after talking to Stokes. His hair was longish and sort of slicked back in a way none of the boys here wore it. It opened up his face so that I could see it better than I had Saturday night.

“Jeez, Silla, you might want to close your mouth,” Melissa said.

I glanced down at the scuffed stage, then up at Melissa with my lips pursed into a frown.

Wendy nudged her. “Leave her alone. It’s great she’s showing interest at all.”

My gratitude for her intercession dried up, and I glared at them both.

“He is cute,” Melissa offered.

“He lives in that old farmhouse up the road from me,” I said. “Just moved in.”

They both watched me like I’d sprouted a conjoined twin on the side of my face. Wendy winced as Melissa laughed. “No kidding, Sil, we know. Everybody’s been talking about him all day. Jerry said he’s Mr. Harleigh’s grandson.”

“Oh.” He didn’t look like Mr. Harleigh, who’d been stooped over like he was holding a secret against his stomach.

“And his stepmother is like some huge, famous writer. She must use a pen name, though. Weren’t you listening at lunch when Eric and Doug were starting up the betting pool on what she writes?”

Stokes waved his pudgy hands toward the stage, and the three of us shifted to where he wanted us. “Why would a famous author move here?” I asked, but didn’t hear any reply because Nick lifted his gaze right then, and caught mine. He smiled crookedly. His knees jutted out, as did his elbows. He was like a giant scarecrow folded up into the seat, smiling at me. I glanced away.

“Let’s see the start of act four!” called Stokes.

I’d never been a theater guy. But even I saw it as Silla stepped into her role.

It was like—I don’t know. Silla was there, but she was more than herself. It was a witch up on the stage, talking about eyeballs and lizard parts, and even though I’d seen her out in the cemetery, this was different. But it was also real.

So, acting. Apparently it wasn’t just something kids did when they couldn’t get into college.

Mr. Stokes paused the scene, and Silla fell out of character. Like flipping a switch. She flicked her stare past the director, to me. I smiled a little. Silla glanced away.

Even when Stokes moved on to a scene Silla wasn’t in, I watched her. She stood at the edge of the stage, leaning against the arch. Her hands were covered in rings. She fidgeted, causing the rings to glitter under the multihued lights, making colors dart crazily across the black stage floor.

In the parking lot after rehearsal, Nick was waiting. He rested his butt against the passenger door of a sleek black convertible.

Wendy bumped her shoulder into mine. “He’s staring at you again. He could be crazy. You know, I heard that his mom spent time in an institution.”

“An institution?”

“A mental one.”

“Hey!” Melissa cackled. “You two might have been made for each other.”

I should have done it myself, but Wendy smacked Melissa’s arm for me. “God, Melissa. Insensitive much?”

We were close enough then that Nick said, “Hey, Silla.”

I cautiously approached, knowing Wendy was going with Melissa and her boyfriend in Melissa’s old Camry to Evanstown for burgers. I didn’t want to go, and maybe Nick was my excuse. “Hi, Nick.”

“Can I give you a lift home? It’s right on my way.”

Low gray light filtering through the afternoon clouds softened
all the shadows. I could see all the angles of his face. His eyes were brown, a dark, greenish sort of brown like a freshly turned field. His lashes curled like birthday ribbons. “Silla?” he said.

“Oh, sorry.” I lowered my chin and looked at the asphalt for a moment, at his black combat boots. Wendy’s fingers brushed against mine.
Go, dummy
, she meant. I smiled up at Nick. “Yeah. Yes, I’d love a ride.”

“Great.” He opened the door for me.

I waved to Wendy, who bounced after Melissa. As I slid into the passenger seat, I said, “Nice car,” because I was supposed to.

“It’s my dad’s, but thanks.”

As he jogged around the front and got behind the wheel, I studied his profile. He’d broken his nose at some point. Before I could ask, Nick revved the engine and pulled out of the lot. Wind grabbed my short hair and ruffled it, and for a moment, I missed the feel of its length whipping against my cheeks and neck. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the soft leather.

“I don’t know if this is an appropriate question or not,” Nick said.

My guts rolled. He was going to ask about my parents. I kept my eyes shut.

“How come you aren’t playing Lady Macbeth? I mean, you’re the best one up there. Way better than that blond girl they have in the role.”

Startled, I glanced at him. His hands were on the wheel
and his eyes on the road. But he did flick a quick look my way, once and then again. I felt my lips soften and let myself smile. “Thanks. I don’t mind the role, though. The witches are fun.”

“Yeah, but … I mean, I don’t know much about theater, and I can tell you’re better.” He winced, shrugging as though apologizing for the compliment.

Inexplicably, I wanted to touch him. To put my fingers on his shoulder or knee. I folded my hands in my lap and watched the winking glass in my rings. Each one reminded me of a different word, or a different expression on Dad’s face. I took a breath and said, “Casting me as a witch was the kindest thing that’s ever been done for me.”

Nick frowned into the silence, but it wasn’t until we’d passed through the third block of Main Street and were turning up Ellison toward our part of the township that he asked, “Why?”

I couldn’t look at him while I said it, so I turned to watch the broken brown stalks of old corn flashing past. The gray sky above made the stalks seem almost golden. “Because of my parents.” I paused, and when he remained silent, I assumed he understood. “I read for Lady Macbeth, but there’s a scene where she’s kind of lost it, and she keeps seeing blood all over her hands.” My shudder melted into the vibration of the racing car. “Stokes didn’t want me to have to go through that every performance. Not to mention at rehearsals. And if it was me onstage, nobody in the audience would be thinking about Macbeth or the play—they’d be thinking about my parents.” I licked my lips and looked back at my lap.

Nick didn’t say anything. It wasn’t like there was anything that needed to be said.

After another moment, the car slowed and pulled onto the crunching gravel of my driveway. I remembered ruining the white dust under my bloody fingers. If I won the lottery, the first thing I’d do would be to pave the road. Then I’d move to New Mexico.

I stopped the convertible behind a Volkswagen Rabbit with a mess of stickers on the bumper and rear window. My Sebring’s engine ticked quietly, and I pulled out the keys while I read all the Rabbit’s stickers. Did people really still have
SAVE THE WHALES
bumper stickers? Answer: yep. And every Democratic presidential campaign sticker since Dukakis.

Turning, I leaned my back on the door and hooked my knee up a little onto the seat. Still as stone except for the wind in her dark pixie hair, Silla stared at her hands where they clenched together in her lap. Where’d all the rings come from? They didn’t look like cheap crap from Claire’s or Hot Topic. The antique settings twisted in knot patterns and graceful swirls. I’d have bet that at least some of the jewels were real. I drew my gaze up her arms to her face. “Hey, so, Silla.”

She slowly raised her head.

“That your car?”

Her lips parted as though it was the very last thing she’d expected. “Um. No, that would be Gram Judy. She’s rabid.” Silla smiled fondly.

I wanted to ask her about Saturday night. If I’d imagined it
on a dark, lonely night in a cemetery. She looked tired, though. And sad. And what if she said I was crazy? I touched her wrist. “How’s your finger?”

“My finger?” She lifted it up, and then her eyelashes fluttered really fast. “Oh, um. That. It’s fine. I used peroxide, like you said.” She showed me the Band-Aid wrapped around the cut.

“You should be more careful.” It wasn’t supposed to sound as condescending as it did. But the Band-Aid on her thumb reminded me so sharply of Mom.

She moved suddenly, like she’d realized she was on fire, grabbing her backpack off the floor at her feet and opening the door. “Thanks for the ride.”

I winced while her back was turned, realizing I’d probably scared her off by being a prick. “Sure, anytime. I’ll be at rehearsal most nights, I think.”