Bewitching Read online

  She looked up now, staring at me with her cool blue eyes. “I said no.”

  I nodded. “Okay, I guess I must have left it lying around somewhere.” I looked down, but I could still feel her staring at me. I wanted to change the subject, make everything okay. “So, do you want to do the algebra assignment?”

  “Finished it.”

  “Language arts?”

  “Finished that too.”

  Language arts had been twenty-seven sentences with the vocabulary words. No way could she have finished all of them. Not without time traveling.

  “Look, I’m busy,” she said.

  “You’re texting.”

  “I’m texting my friends from home.”

  I nodded, still not wanting to leave. Why had she turned on me so quickly? “So, we’ll do it later?”

  “I already told you I was finished.”

  Finally, I had to leave.

  Back in my room, I went through every drawer, every closet, rummaged under the bed. The iPod was nowhere to be found.

  8

  Friday night, I went to the mall with “the girls,” and Saturday to a different mall. Saturday night, they all came over to watch movies, while Mother hovered over us, offering popcorn and fresh-squeezed lemonade.

  It was fun being part of the group, but I could barely understand a word they said. I hoped Mother couldn’t understand at all.

  “Wagwan, Midori,” Courtney said, looking at her phone. “I see you friended Jacy Davis. She’s a total skank.”

  “I did it for the lulz,” Midori said. “Did you see the stuff she posts? Last week, she took selfies of her getting blazed at Crispin’s party.”

  “I know!” Courtney said. “And she’s literally hooked up with a thousand guys.”

  Mother, who had been handing out Rice Krispies squares, now tried to look invisible. She’d seen every episode of Dr. Phil and read Dear Abby daily. Plus, she’d been forwarded a million cautionary emails by her friends, outlining the evils of posting photos on the internet, much less getting high. Please don’t let her say anything. I tried to telepath to her: Don’t speak. After all, you want me to be friends with these girls.

  She must have heard me, because she kept her mouth shut.

  The weird thing was, after two solid days with Courtney and Company, I was starting to… I don’t know, long to go upstairs and read a book. Yes, I’d been friends with Courtney in the past, but now I realized we’d grown apart. We were nothing alike. In fact, she was kind of annoying. It was Lisette I wanted to be with now. I admitted to myself that I’d had this fantasy that she wouldn’t need any friends besides me. Then we’d read by the fireplace while toasting s’mores every Saturday night until it was time to be college roommates, then marry identical twins. Okay, probably not.

  So when Midori said, “We should make this a sleepover party,” I said, “Oh, no.”

  “No?” Midori obviously wasn’t used to the word.

  I looked at Lisette. “We have plans tomorrow morning, early. Right, Lisette?”

  “Oh, yeah. Yeah, right?”

  “Remember? Dad’s boat? We told him we’d go.” Dad had already turned in, but Lisette had said she was up for it.

  “Oh, yeah.” She nodded. “Some other time then.”

  They left a little while later. Before I went to bed, I asked Lisette, “What time are we going?”

  “Oh, I told Dad since we were going to be up late, maybe nine.”

  It was after one, but I said, “Great. I’ll set my alarm for eight.”

  The next morning, my alarm didn’t ring. When I woke up at eight-thirty, Lisette was already gone. I didn’t have to ask to know where she was—out with Daddy on his sailboat.

  Why? Had she misunderstood that I’d wanted to go? Or had Daddy not wanted me? It must have been some kind of misunderstanding. They couldn’t have just ditched me.

  I tried to tell myself I hadn’t really wanted to go. It was true. I’d much rather spend the day at home with a good book than fighting sails and frying my skin. I just didn’t want Lisette to go, didn’t want to be left out.

  But that was selfish, right? I’d had Dad my whole life. Lisette was just getting to know him.

  When Mother came down an hour later, I was eating a muffin and reading. She said, “I thought you were going with them.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t really like sailing.” It wasn’t a lie.

  “You should have gone. Don’t let her worm her way into your spot.”

  “She’s not doing that.” I turned a page of my book, even though I wasn’t finished with it.

  “Emma, pay attention. That’s just what she’s doing. She’s a pretty girl, and she knows how to get what she wants, whether it’s clothes or your father.”

  “That’s not fair.” She made me sound so pathetic, so helpless, like there was no way my father could possibly care about me, as a person.

  “Watch out for her, Emma.”

  I looked at the book, but said, “You make it sound like she’s some evil viper or something.”

  “I don’t know how she was raised.”

  “You’re the one who stole Dad from her mother, not the other way around.”

  As soon as I said it, I regretted it. What was I thinking? Me, who’d rather get kicked a hundred times than tell someone to take their foot off my chair, who ate PB&J every day for three years rather than tell my mother I didn’t like it. I was making soap opera revelations now? Mom stood frozen, and I tried to shove the words back. “Look, I’m sorry.”

  “Clearly, that’s what you think of me.”

  “It’s not.”

  She turned to leave. “Clear the dishes when you’ve finished.”

  I knew I should go after her, say I hadn’t meant it, that I wouldn’t go over to the dark side with Lisette. But I had meant it. Mother was the villain in the story. Lisette was the victim. I’d never thought about it before, never had to. Now I had, and once thought about, I couldn’t unthink it. Unless I was in a car accident and got brain damage, which might be easier than thinking all the time, but which would come with its own set of problems.

  Yet part of me knew that Lisette had ditched me on purpose. Mother was right. I just didn’t want to admit it, to Mother or myself.

  I sat in my room all day, reading and avoiding Mother. Lisette came home with Daddy, blue eyes shining through the sunburn I knew would turn to tan, and knocked on my door.

  “I tried to wake you up this morning,” she said before I asked. “But you just yelled at me to go away.”

  “Really? I don’t remember that. I thought I set my alarm.”

  “Huh. It’s so weird when that kind of thing happens. One time, my mom went to let our cat out in the middle of the night and got locked out. She pounded on the door until I let her in, she said, but the next morning, I didn’t remember it. Even though I got up and everything.”

  “That’s weird.”

  “Anyway, maybe that’s what happened.”

  I nodded. “Probably.” It sounded possible. I had been up really late. I usually went to bed around ten-thirty.

  “Anyway, we missed you.”

  I wanted to change the subject, so I asked her if she wanted to listen to this song I liked (my iPod had miraculously reappeared under my bed, even though I’d looked there five times). She did. When Mother called us to dinner, I had Lisette tell her I wasn’t feeling well. I couldn’t face her.

  I wasn’t surprised when there was a knock on my door, an hour later. I unlocked it, dreading seeing Mom. I started back toward my bed and my copy of Sense and Sensibility, which I was rereading for the fifth time.

  “Feeling better?”

  I turned, startled to hear Dad’s voice. “What?” Had he come to talk about my argument with Mother? Of course not. She’d never tell him what I’d said. “Oh, yeah. Better.” I picked up my book, which I’d dropped.

  “Good book?”

  “Sure.” He didn’t care. He wasn’t a big reader, except the ne
wspaper. It was just one of those things parents do, asking you a question, just so you’ll have to talk.

  “Haven’t seen much of you lately,” he said.

  Maybe if you hadn’t ditched me this morning. But I didn’t say it. I was back to being the quiet one, the nonconfrontational one. I’d had my outburst for the decade. I said, “I want to go sailing next time.”

  He nodded and didn’t say anything about Lisette trying to wake me. I wondered if it was true. Instead, he said, “How’ve you and Lizzie been getting along?”

  “Lizzie?” The question surprised me. Dad wasn’t usually the one who looked for trouble when there was none apparent. He left that to my mother. “Great. Fine. She’s super-nice.”

  “Would you tell me if there was a problem?”

  No. “Of course. But there isn’t one.” My book closed, losing my place. Did he think there was a problem? Like, did he suspect Lisette had blown me off on purpose?

  “Because Lizzie was telling me she’s worried you’re jealous of her.”

  “Jealous? Why would I be jealous?” Just because she’s skinny, blond, perfect, and my old friends love her even enough to deal with me? “She’s really nice.”

  “She said you accused her of stealing your earrings.”

  “What?” I started, and the book bounced off the bed. “No, I didn’t. I didn’t say that. That’s not true. She just had the same earrings as me, the shell ones you bought on our trip, and I said…” I tried to remember what I said. Dad was nodding, the way adults do when they’re pretending to believe you, but they really don’t. “I just said we should wear them together sometimes, because we had the same ones. That’s all.”

  He kept nodding.

  “Don’t you believe me?” I reached for the book on the floor, even though I knew I looked stupid, fumbling for it and wouldn’t be able to find my page, mostly because I didn’t want him to see my face, how red it was.

  “Of course I believe you. Just remember, this is a hard time for Lisette. Her mother has passed away. She’s in a new place, all new people. Just try to be friendly.”

  “I have been friendly. I’ve been nothing but nice to her, even when…”

  “Even when what?”

  “Nothing. I never said she stole my earrings.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t.”

  “She must have misunderstood.”

  “That’s probably it.” He touched my head.

  I chose a random place in the book and started reading. “I have homework.”

  “We okay?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  Finally, he left. I stared at the book until the letters moved and swirled to look like they were written in Russian or Arabic. Only after Dad left did it occur to me that he hadn’t said the things parents usually say to their old kid when there’s a new kid around, stuff like how they loved the old kid just as much, how they knew it was hard for the old kid—for me—to adjust.

  No, Dad hadn’t been concerned about my feelings at all. He’d only cared about Lisette.

  Another thought occurred to me. I’d never thought Lisette had taken my earrings.

  Now, I was positive she had.

  I turned back to the beginning of the book and started reading.

  Another hour passed, an hour in which the characters in the book stood stock-still, accomplishing nothing because I was too busy playing and replaying the conversation in my head. Unfair. So. Unfair. Someone says something about you, and just because they said it first—because you were trying to be nice and not complain, you’re in the position of denying it. You have—as those lawyers on TV would say—the burden of proof. And, if the person who says it is perfect and sweet-looking and blond and—let’s face it—Dad’s real daughter, it’s a pretty heavy burden.

  My stomach growled, a long, skinny growl that spiraled from my belly to just below my heart, but I couldn’t go downstairs and get something to eat, couldn’t face Mother, now that I knew she was right. I knew I’d be up at midnight, making a sandwich. I wanted my mother, but I couldn’t go.

  Someone knocked on the door.

  I glanced at the clock, considering whether I could ignore it, whether I could pretend to be asleep.

  Eight-thirty. Probably no one would buy it.

  Another knock. Then, a voice. “Emma?”

  Lisette!

  “Emma, let me in!”

  I sighed and said, “It’s open.” I couldn’t be rude to her, not now that she was all about reporting me to Dad.

  “I brought you a sandwich.” She held it out to me.

  I looked. Ham and cheese on marble rye, mustard, not mayo, tomato, but no lettuce, cut in triangles exactly the way I’d have made it myself. Was she spying on me?

  I wanted to refuse it, but I was hungry.

  “Thanks.” I took it.

  “Your mom wasn’t too happy at dinner. Did you have an argument?”

  She paused, like she was waiting for me to contribute something, to tell her what we’d argued about, which wasn’t going to happen. I couldn’t rat out Mother. I took a bite of sandwich and chewed it a really long time. Lisette said nothing, watching me eat. It reminded me of staring contests Courtney and I used to have when we were kids, to see who’d blink first.

  I blinked. “Why’d you tell Dad I was jealous of you?”

  She looked stunned. “He wasn’t supposed to repeat that.”

  “He’s a parent. That’s what they do.”

  “I guess I’m not used to that.”

  “Besides, whether he was supposed to repeat it or not, you said it. I never said you took my earrings.”

  “It felt like you did.”

  “I just said I had the same ones, not that you stole them. You just said that to make me look bad in front of Dad.”

  The ceiling fan overhead repeated my words, look bad, look bad, look bad.

  And that’s when Lisette burst into tears.

  Oh, she was good.

  “I’m sorry.” The word came out as a huge gasp, and she buried her head in her hands. “I’m so sorry, Emma.”

  I stared at her. Was I supposed to put my arms around her or something?

  “I wanted you to like me,” she sobbed.

  “And you thought lying about me would help?”

  “I wasn’t… I just… I wanted us to be like best friends, like sisters. And when you said that, I just thought…” Her next words were lost in sobs that even made her toes shake.

  “What?”

  “My mother’s dead, Emma. For years, she didn’t go to the doctor, said we didn’t have the money for it, and by the time she went … it was too late. She’s dead. In a box in the ground. Do you know what that’s like, Emma? Do you?”

  In that instant, I pictured my own mother, lying cold and still, unreachable. My grandmother had died when I was nine. Mother and Dad had debated and debated whether I should go to the funeral and finally took me because my cousins would be there. But when I saw Memaw, her hair poufed up in a way it never had been, her skin unnaturally pink, I’d started screaming. For weeks after, I had nightmares about Memaw’s ghostly face, jumping out at me like a horror movie. If I closed my eyes, I could still picture it, and the worst thing was, I couldn’t remember how she’d looked alive.

  I grabbed Lisette’s hand. “God, Lisette, I’m so sorry.”

  “She’s gone. I have nothing and no one except some father I’ve never seen before, a father who didn’t want me.”

  I put my arms around her. “That’s not true. Of course he wanted you.”

  But I knew she had it right. He’d ditched her, her and her mother. He hadn’t even mentioned them all those years, like they didn’t exist. If her mother hadn’t died, he’d probably never have seen her. Poor Lisette!

  “He didn’t! He doesn’t. He wanted you and your mother. And you … don’t you see, Emma. You’re all I have.”

  I held her as her body shook with sobs. “I am?”

  “You’re my sister, but I wa
s worried you didn’t want me here either.”

  “I do want you. I want to be your sister. I never thought you’d taken my earrings.”

  Instinctively, my hand wandered up to my ears, the earrings. I had them on. I pulled away to look at Lisette, hoping she had hers on too. It would prove, to both of us, that she hadn’t taken them, that she was telling the truth.

  But she had no earrings at all, which proved nothing.

  I said, “We’re sisters, Lisette. I… I love you.”

  9

  The next day, in chorus, Kendra was sitting, listening to music, sort of dancing. When I sat down, she said, “Listen to this.”

  I took the earbuds, mostly to be polite. Immediately, a shrilling violin assaulted my ears, then a wild dance of horns and bells, bells and horns. I pulled the earpieces out. “What is that?” Usually, she was more into Sheryl Crow.

  “Symphonie Fantastique by Berlioz.” She said this casually, as if it was a perfectly normal thing for an eighth grader to be listening to at school.

  “Nice.” I glanced around, looking for Lisette. The violins danced like moshers in the space between the earbuds and my eardrum.

  “It’s very romantic,” Kendra said.

  “Sounds it.” I laughed.

  “Really, it was. Hector Berlioz, the composer, fell in love with this actress named Harriet Smithson when he saw her in a play. He sent her love notes, but she thought he sounded like a wack job. She wouldn’t meet him. Also he didn’t speak English, and she didn’t speak French. But Hector became so obsessed with Harriet that he wrote this symphony for her.”

  I smiled. Hector and Harriet, like she knew them. Only Kendra.

  “Harriet came to the concert,” she continued, “and they finally met. Soon, they fell in love and were married.”

  “And did they invite you to the wedding?” I joked.

  “No.” Kendra shook her head, then said sadly, “No, I never got to meet him.”