Rhymes With Witches (6 page)

“Nossir,” Bob Foskin complained from his desk at the front of the room. “Just ain't no way a chick can make a baby on her own, goddess or no goddess.”

“Fertility. Creation. Rebirth,” Lurl the Pearl droned in her gravelly voice. “There are mysteries in the world that aren't meant to be understood.”

“I don't know nothing about that,” Bob said. “What I do know is that every mare needs a stallion, if you catch my drift.”

A few kids tittered, but I tuned them out. I jiggled the computer's mouse, and the “Lady and the Beast” screen saver disappeared. When I got to Google, I typed in “Sandy,” “Crestview Academy,” and after a moment of thought, “died.” No hits, of course. I tried “Crestview” and “witchcraft,” but again got no hits. I cleared the search line and typed in “bitches,” just for the hell of it. The list I got filled zillions of pages. First came the obligatory “female dog” stuff, and then the entries got more interesting. Tokyo Bitches, IQ Bitches, Cricket-playing Bitches. I found one site called Mature Bitches, which must have slipped past the school's blocking software, because when I pulled it up, I was bombarded with porn pop-ups. If I ever needed a perverted granny, I knew where to go.

Something brushed my leg, and I jumped. A cat—small and dark with clumpy fur. The feral cats were always prowling around in here, probably because Lurl the Pearl was the sole teacher who didn't seem to mind. And usually I didn't either. Usually I felt sorry for them, because they were so mangy and bedraggled. Other students complained—a girl named Alice was allergic and brought in a note from her doctor—but Lurl the Pearl didn't do anything about it. “Focus, please,” she'd said, blankly surveying both the class and the cats.

The cat nudged me again and let out a squeaky mew.
Usually
I didn't mind—but today I didn't want to touch it. Rae's story had
done that if nothing else. But I didn't want to not touch it, either, just because of Rae's malarkey. I gave the cat a quick scratch, then wiped my hand on my jeans and scrolled further down the list on my computer. Chess Bitches, Vegan Bitches, Snarky Bitches … hmm. The description for Snarky Bitches read, “For girls/women who are Bitches, plain and simple.” I double clicked on the address. The screen blipped, and a hot pink site logo popped up.

“Have we finished the assignment?” Lurl the Pearl asked from behind me.

I smothered a cry. She was mouth breathing down my neck. Quickly I clicked the back button, and the list of “bitch” sites reappeared.
Shit, shit, shit.
I clicked again and again to get back to the Google homepage.

“This computer is reserved for research, Miss Goodwin,” said Lurl the Pearl. “Not Internet hanky panky.”

“Sorry, Ms. Lear,” I said. I swiveled to face her, reminding myself not to stare at the bizarre contraption connected to her rose-tinted glasses. But it was extremely difficult. A thick strip of elastic circled her head like a crown, securing a Band-Aid shaped piece of metal that stretched horizontally across her pale forehead. A slimmer piece of metal extended downward from the Band-Aid's center and hooked the bridge of her glasses, preventing them from slipping out of place. All of this to save her the effort of pushing them up every now and then.

She blinked. “In any case, we do not condone the exploration
of inappropriate subjects. Let's save the nasty until we're safe at home, shall we?”

The nasty?

“I wasn't … I mean, I was just …” My gaze strayed to the metal T. I wondered if she got tan lines from it, or if it got hot and burned her. I wondered if she ever went out in the sun.

The cat at my feet mewed, and Lurl scooped it up. It immediately began to purr.

“In any case, you won't find what you were looking for on the computer,” she said. She did this laugh thing that sounded like a grown man's giggle, and my internal creep-meter dinged in alarm.

“Um, I really don't know what you're talking about. I swear.”

She stopped giggling. “Focus, please,” she said, fondling the cat as it head-butted her hand. She turned to face the class. “Would anyone care to discuss the cult objects found in the temple of Kali, goddess of death and resurrection?”

Friday night, Bitsy pulled up in front of my house at eight-fifteen.

“My, aren't we looking glam?” she said when she saw me. “Quite a bit of leg on show there, eh?” She and Mary Bryan went into a titter fest, and my insides gummed up. I couldn't move.

“Hi, Jane,” Keisha said from the passenger seat of Bitsy's red car. “Get in.”

I searched Keisha's face. She didn't
seem
to be joking.

“Come on, come on,” Bitsy said. “You're dead lucky I haven't peeled off by now.”

I climbed past Keisha into the back. I squished in with Mary Bryan and tugged at my skirt.

“Don't let Bitsy bother you,” Mary Bryan said. “Anyway, I love your blouse.”

“Really? It's not too see-through?”

Mary Bryan tucked my bra strap under the strap of the camisole. “There. Fabulous.”

“
You
look fabulous,” I told her. I leaned forward to address Bitsy and Keisha. “You guys, too. You look great.”

“Thanks, Jane,” Keisha said. “You're sweet.”

Bitsy accelerated, and I fell back against my seat. Mary Bryan giggled.

“So help us out, will you, luv?” Bitsy said over her shoulder. “I want the truth. Your honest opinion.”

“On what?”

“Nose rings. Not a hoop, just a stud. A tiny silver star, for example.”

“Oh my god,” Mary Bryan moaned. “Bitsy!”

I pushed myself into a more comfortable position. “Uh … in general, or on someone specific?”

“On me,” Mary Bryan said. “She's talking about me, because I happened to mention—
once
!—that I thought it might look cute. But I wasn't going to actually
do
it.”

“Right, now you deny it,” Bitsy said. “So what about it, Jane? Yay or nay?”

Mary Bryan hid her face in her hands. “Go on. Just say it, whatever it is.”

I hesitated. I could tell they were teasing, but I wasn't sure how to proceed. “Well, I wouldn't judge somebody for getting it done,” I hedged. “Because, I mean, it's their body. They can do whatever they want.”

“Ha,” Mary Bryan said. “See?”

“But would
you
get it done?” Bitsy said. “Would you even consider it?”

“Personally? Um, probably not?”

“
Exactly
,” Bitsy said. She caught my eye in the rearview mirror. “Good girl, Jane.”

“Sorry,” I said to Mary Bryan.

“I never said I was actually going to do it,” she said.

Keisha turned toward the window, but she was smiling. My chest filled with something balloony and light.

Bitsy tapped her iPod to change the playlist. She punched up the volume and tapped the beat on the steering wheel.

Feeling bold, I fingered the hem of my skirt. “So, what you said about showing a lot of leg. Is that a good thing? Or do I look, you know, too tarty?”

I meant it to be flippant. An I-can-take-it sort of remark, and also to show that I hadn't forgotten what she'd said that day by
my locker. But she and Keisha exchanged a look, and my stomach dipped.

“What?” I said.

Keisha twisted in her seat to face me. “Listen, Jane. Don't take this the wrong way, but looks
do
matter. And if you're going to be one of us, you've got to meet a certain standard. Do you know what I'm saying?”

Mary Bryan found my hand and squeezed it.

Keisha pressed on. “Your skirt's a little short. I'm not going to lie. But for the most part you're cute enough. And you do all right in school, which isn't that important, but it doesn't hurt. All of this is part of why we chose you. But you know what the most important thing is?”

I shook my head.

“You have to
want
it,” Keisha said. “You have to want to be popular more than you've wanted anything in your life.”

Her eyes bored into me. Was I supposed to say something? Was I supposed to, like, bounce up and down and do cheerleader jumps?

Without meaning to, I thought of the dead girl, Sandy, who had somehow come to life in my brain even though I knew she had never existed. Sandy, who was super needy. Who really, really, really wanted to be popular.

“And we know you do,” Mary Bryan said reassuringly. “Right, Jane?”

“Crikey, here we are,” Bitsy said. She turned left into a gated
community and pulled up at the guard station. She gave them Kyle's name.

“So … what do I need to do?” I asked. I heard my voice quaver, and I dug my fingernails into my palms.

Keisha's expression softened. “Your wardrobe needs some work—it's true. But you're here at Kyle's party with us. You're pulling up in Bitsy's car, and you're walking in the door with Mary Bryan on one side of you and me on the other. Okay?”

The gate creaked open.

“Just be cool, luv,” Bitsy said. “Tonight you're our baby Bitch.”

I tried. I
did
. But my gut cramped up the second I walked in the door, and the whole time I was there I felt like I needed to sprint to the bathroom. Plus, everything was all chichi and ultra fancy. Like, there was a plaque in the entry hall announcing that this was a
SHOE-FREE ENVIRONMENT
. A shoe-free environment? In all my fourteen years, not once had I seen a plaque announcing a shoe-free environment.

The others slipped off their shoes and put them on a special rack, so I stepped out of my clogs and did the same thing. My toenails were scraggly. I tried to scrunch them out of view.

“Ladies,” Kyle said, swooping over to greet us. He put one arm around Bitsy and one arm around Mary Bryan. “Bitsy, I adore that halter. And Keisha! Our queen of the Nile!” He let go of Bitsy and Mary Bryan and air-kissed Keisha's cheek.

“Hi, Kyle,” Keisha said. She returned his kiss and made eyes at Bitsy.

Kyle stepped back. He gave me the once over. “Well, what do we have here?”

My face split into a twitchy grin. “Hi,” I said. “Thanks for inviting me to your party.”

“You're very welcome.
Did
I invite you to my party?”

My smile hurt the sides of my mouth.

“Kyle, this is Jane,” Bitsy said. “Be nice.”

“Oh, poo. I'm always nice.” He looped his arm through mine and led me toward the kitchen. “Jane.
Jane.
Can I offer you a quencher, Jane?”

“Uh, sure,” I said. “Thanks.”

“Don't thank me yet, cupcake. What'll you have?”

I looked at the blue- and gold-tiled countertops, which were lined with bottles. Dewar's. Grey Goose. Bacardi. I remembered a drink I'd heard mentioned in a movie. “Maybe a mojito?”

“Aren't we sophisticated,” Kyle said.

Bitsy choke-laughed. But she said, “Make it two. Better yet, four. I think we could all benefit from a mojito, right, girls?”

She lounged against the counter, as comfortable in her body as I was uncomfortable in mine. I modeled my position after hers.
Chill
, I told myself.
You are here with the Bitches. You are golden.

Kyle handed me my drink. It tasted like mint.

From where I stood I could see the already crowded living room, and out of everyone there—the jocks and the cheerleaders,
the honor council kids, the partiers—there wasn't a single person I knew well enough to say hello to. So when Keisha said, “All right, Jane. Time to mingle,” I about crapped my pants.

“I'll just hang out here,” I said. “But, you know, thanks.”

“We need to see you in action,” Keisha said.

Panicked, I turned to Mary Bryan.

“You can do it,” she said. She smiled anxiously. “It'll be fun.”

Bitsy raised her glass. “Go on, luv. Strut your stuff.”