How to Hang a Witch (3 page)

M
y head smacks the car window as Vivian stops short in front of my school. I rub my neck.
I slept for crap last night.
Not that it's anything new; I haven't slept well since my dad went into a coma.

“Here.” Vivian reaches into the backseat. “Bring these to class. They might soften people up a little and help with the friend problem.” She hands me a box of pastries.

I realize she's serious.
How can I say no?
This is a big gesture for her. She must be legitimately worried about me.
But seriously…pastries?
This isn't one of her luncheons. If I bring these in on day two of school, it's only going to make me look like I'm trying too hard. Those girls will jump all over it. The bell rings.

“Thanks.” I try to muster a smile. I grab my stuff and run inside. By the time I turn down my homeroom hallway, there are only a few stragglers in sight. I swing Mrs. Hoxley's door open just as the second bell sounds.

Everyone is already settled, and the only available spot is next to Susannah—the Descendant whose seat I accidentally took on the first day.

“Just in time, Ms. Mather. With offerings, I see.” Mrs. Hoxley greedily eyes the pastries.

I should have dumped these in the garbage can. “These are just a…well, I thought…um…I brought these.”
Great, I sound like a complete idiot.
The Descendants laugh as I hand the box to Mrs. Hoxley.

I pull out my strawberry-flavored lip gloss and my notebook with my calendar in it and sit down. Mrs. Hoxley passes around the pastry box. Everyone takes one except for the Descendants. I study my calendar, pretending I'm busy. I can't help but notice that my birthday is next month.

Sweet sixteen, my ass. I hate my birthday. My parties were so awful when I was little that a rumor started that I was cursed. By eleven, I stopped celebrating altogether. Everything is already so crappy, the last thing I need is more bad luck.

I circle October 27 and cross it out. I put my pen down and glance at the clock. One more minute before I can get out of here. My pen rolls toward the edge of my desk and I make an attempt to grab it, but miss. Susannah doesn't, though. She catches it midair before it hits the ground.

We lock eyes. Susannah's dark auburn hair is in another neat bun, and she wears a black lace dress. She reminds me of a ballerina in a weird way. She doesn't have that mean edge the others do, either. She holds the pen out for me. Her nails are painted black.

“Thanks.”

The bell rings. I shove my notebook in my bag and stand. The Descendants don't say a word on their way out.

When I'm in the hallway, people watch me. Not in that new-girl way, but in the they-know-something-I-don't way. So this is what happens when the Descendants don't like you. I really don't get the social structure of this school.

I turn the corner toward history class. Alice's blond ponytail and black blazer peek out from behind an open locker. She moves her hands as she speaks, and I get a glimpse of Susannah's face. I hug the wall and walk toward them. I mean, I'm going that way anyway.

“I told you to drop it,” Alice says from behind the locker.

“You don't think it's strange that John's great-grandfather died last night?” Susannah asks as I inch closer, trying to hear them over the crowd of students. I pull my schedule out of my back pocket and lean against the lockers to look less conspicuous.

“He was ninety,” Alice says.

“Yeah, but how do you explain—”

“Enough,” Alice says.

“I say we talk to her.”

Alice shakes her head and her ponytail glides across her shoulders. “Not a chance. And don't think I didn't see you catch her pen this morning.”

Me? Are they talking about me? I take a step forward. Why would Susannah want to talk to me about someone's great-grandfather dying?

“So, come on. Out with it,” Jaxon says near my ear.

I jump, sending my elbow into the metal lockers. Alice whips around at the loud clang and finds me two feet away from her, staring in her direction with a guilty look on my face. She narrows her eyes and I quickly walk away from the wall, shifting my gaze to Jaxon. I don't know why I thought that was a good idea. Stealth is not my thing. And I'm positive Alice is only going to like me less now.

“Out with what?” I reply, walking toward history class and away from Alice at a fast pace.

Jaxon holds the classroom door open for me. “The secret door. What'd you find in there?”

“Truthfully, I didn't go in.”

“Scared?” His blue eyes light up.

I smile and slide into my seat. “No, we came home late 'cause Vivian dragged me all over town doing errands. And ten minutes after we got home, our lights went out and wouldn't go back on.”

“So, basically, you were waiting for me to go in with you.”

I feign annoyance at his amused expression.

“Settle, everyone,” says Mr. Wardwell, taking off his blazer and hanging it over his chair. “As many of you probably expect, our AP History class will play an active role in Salem's annual history fair by doing a historical reenactment. I'll assign you each a role today.”

Oh no!
I can't even talk in front of my homeroom class of twenty people.

“Also,” continues Mr. Wardwell, “you will write an essay on a specific aspect of the Witch Trials. This is a group assignment; you'll work in pairs. Your homework tonight is to find a partner and a topic.” He lifts a stack of papers to distribute. “These are the format guidelines.”

This is not my day.
Please just let me be a tree, or something else with no lines.

“We are pairing with Ms. Edelson's honors class for the performance, and the jobs will be distributed equally among you. Don't argue with me about your specific assignment; this isn't up for a vote.

“Now, this class is special,” Mr. Wardwell continues, “because we have actual descendants of the main players in the Witch Trials. I think it only apropos they are given the opportunity to play them.”

Halfway through his sentence, my stomach jumps into my throat.
No, no, no! This is a horrible idea!
My relatives played a big part in those Trials. I can't do that.

His eyes land on me. “Samantha, I'm not wrong in assuming you're related to Cotton Mather, am I?” Everyone turns to get a good look at me.

I slide down a few inches in my seat. “Yeah. Um, actually, maybe someone else wants to play him?” The two Descendants in the class take a particular interest in me.

Mr. Wardwell's forehead wrinkles. “As I said, this isn't up for debate, Samantha.”

“Sam,” I correct him. “I'm just…
really
not a performer.”

“This isn't about winning an acting award,
Sam.
It's about celebrating our history. And you will participate if you hope to pass this class.”

Well, that sucked.

“John and Lizzie, you'll also play your ancestors,” Mr. Wardwell says to the Descendants.

“Great,” says John. He shoots me a nasty look.

Wait.
John…
was that whose great-grandfather died? I shift uncomfortably in my seat.

“Mr. Wardwell,” says a girl from my homeroom in the front row. Her voice is high-pitched and she grips her stomach. “I need to use the bathroom. It's an emergency.”

Before he can reply, she runs out of the room with her hand covering her mouth.

“Read your guidelines, and I'll be back in a moment.” Mr. Wardwell exits the room, following the girl.

“Yo, Jax,” says the guy with the lacrosse jacket sitting in front of me. “You wanna partner on this essay or what?”

“Do you mean, do I wanna write the whole thing while you eat all my food and pass out covered in crumbs on my couch?” Jaxon asks. It's clear they're good friends.

“I mean, if you're offering,” says the guy.

“No, man, I already told Sam I'd be her partner.”

“Lies,” says the guy. “But I don't blame you. She's way cuter than me.” He reaches out his hand and I take it. “I'm Dillon.”

“Sam,” I say, and he kisses my hand. I pull it back and he grins. Jaxon shakes his head. Lizzie's bob swishes in my direction, and she whispers something to John. I'm suddenly regretting listening to Alice's conversation. I kinda wish I wasn't on their radar at all.

Mr. Wardwell steps back into the classroom. “Everything's under control.” He doesn't make it more than two feet before a guy, also from my homeroom, pushes past him. “Or, apparently not.”

Oh, crap! What are the chances two people from my homeroom are sick? Please let this be a coincidence. Whatever it is, do not let it be those pastries.

I
enter the hall after my last class, and the suspicious looks have escalated. I overhear snippets of conversations as I walk. “Poisoning…She did it on purpose….At least fifteen people, maybe more…How messed up do you have to be?”

I turn left, toward my locker, and readjust my bag on my shoulder. The other students avoid me. Did fifteen people from my homeroom really get sick? I feel awful.

There's a group surrounding my locker and laughing. When they see me, they pretend they have somewhere to go.

You've got to be kidding me.
PSYCHO is written in big black letters across the front of my locker. I scan the hallway. Just my luck, John and Susannah are headed in my direction. Susannah pushes a loose auburn wisp back into place and opens a locker a few feet away. She won't meet my eyes.

John steps around Susannah and leans so close to me that I can almost taste his cologne. “Sometimes the truth hurts.”

I know I should just walk away, but how is this fair? I haven't even said a word to him, much less done anything. He snickers, and my words erupt from me like soda from a shaken can. “Believe me, if I was trying to get people sick, I would've started with you.” I slam my locker shut and turn away from him.

“Hey, Sam,” he says loudly once I'm a good fifteen feet away. “You put your father in the hospital, too? I hear he might die.”

That's it. I drop my bag and lunge at his perfectly proportioned face.
I'll kill him! I'll tear his grin off!
Jaxon, who I didn't even know was there, catches me right before I make impact.

“Not cool, man,” Jaxon says to John.

We've gathered a crowd of onlookers. I flail, but Jaxon has me secured, his arm tight around my waist.

John flashes a cocky smile and gives me the finger. Susannah pulls John's hand down and attempts to lead him away.

“This isn't over,” I say to John. I'm not even sure what I'm threatening him with, but somehow it doesn't matter.

“Next time I'll let her get you, dude. In fact, I'll help her,” Jaxon adds.

John holds out his arms, inviting me to come and get him as he walks away with Susannah.
How the hell did they find out about my dad?

“What's going on here?” asks Principal Brennan, a tall man with a shirt one size too small and a comb-over. Everyone disperses.

Jaxon removes his arm from my waist. “Someone tagged Sam's locker.”

Principal Brennan examines the writing. “I've read the reports from your school in New York. This is a bad start to the year, Samantha.”

My defensive bristles go up. “You think it's my fault? How can I control this?”

“You can start by controlling your temper,” he says in an authoritarian voice.

I clench my teeth.

Brennan puffs out his chest and I fear for his buttons. “Now go. I'll handle this.” He makes a shooing motion with his hand.

I open my mouth but close it again when Jaxon gives me a warning look. I pick my bag up off the floor and storm down the hall toward the exit. Jaxon follows.

“You okay?” he asks as we leave the building.

“Fine.”

“You want me to hit that clown? I'll hit him.”

“No. I can hit him myself.”

“Yeah, I saw that. Come on, we'll both hit him. You take his fat head, I'll get the rest of him.” He turns back toward the school.

I can't help but appreciate Jaxon's effort. I crack a smile. “Stop! It's fine, I promise.”

He pauses. “Well, can I walk you home at least?”

I nod. “Lemme text Vivian.” I pull out my cell phone and start typing. Within ten seconds, I get a response.

Vivian:
I'll be home in a few hours.

Obviously she's in a real rush to pick me up. “Let's go.”

Rounding the corner and leaving the school behind makes it easier to breathe. I kinda want to be alone right now, but Jaxon's the only person who's nice to me in the whole school and I feel bad telling him to go away. Can this really all be because of my last name? Even the teachers are judgy. “Jaxon, I gotta ask you something.”

“Go for it.”

“You didn't make a bet that you'd hook up with me, did you?”

His eyes smile. “Would I win if I did?”

A hearse followed by a line of cars makes its way down the street. We watch it pass. “I'm the most hated person in that school, and you're still nice to me. It doesn't make sense.”

“Honestly, jokes aside, my mom told me what happened to your father. My father died a few years ago.” He looks down at his hands.

“My dad isn't dying,” I say reflexively, and try to block the image of the hearse out of my thoughts.

“Yeah, I know.” He gives me a half smile. “I just get that this is really hard for you. I was messed up for over a year.”

Maybe Jaxon is actually a nice guy. “I'm sorry. I didn't know.”

“If you ever want to talk about it or whatever…I mean, I know you have your stepmom, but I've been told that I'm an
excellent
listener.”

I look at him. He has an amazing ability to lighten any subject. I wish I could be like that. “Is that a fact?”

“Fact. And I love that you tried to kick John's ass, by the way. That guy's a dick.” He stops on the cobblestone sidewalk in front of the black iron fence and freshly cut grass of my house.

“I would have messed him up, too, if you hadn't stopped me.”

“Obviously.” He heads up my driveway toward my house. “Let's go check out that library.”

I consider saying no, but I don't have a reason besides having had a bad day. Plus, he's been doing his best to make it easier on me. Jaxon and I drop our bags in the front foyer and head down the hallway to the library. The wooden boards creak lightly under our feet.

“Let's lock it,” I say, stepping into the library and flicking the light switch on.

Jaxon shuts the door and turns the brass latch. Vivian said she wouldn't be home for a few hours, but I'd rather not chance it. Once she knows, it'll no longer be my secret.

My fingers feel around for the hook, and a rush of excitement elbows out my stress. I'm actually glad Jaxon stayed. If he hadn't, I'd probably be in my room right now with my face buried in a pillow. I pull the hook and the hinge clicks, popping open the dark brown panel to reveal the hidden door. Jaxon pushes the panel all the way open, and we enter the secret hallway.

There's a lantern hanging just inside the narrow passage. I pull it down. “Think this thing works?” It's heavier than I expect.

Jaxon inspects it in the dim lighting. “It's an antique for sure, but more like seventy years old than three hundred.”

I flip the little knob on the metal base and a small flame shoots up, throwing dancing shadows along the old brick. “If this thing is from the nineteen hundreds, I guess we're not the only ones who've discovered this passageway.”

Jaxon closes the door behind us with the handle on the inside. “Yeah, but for now this place is just ours.”

Something about the way he says “ours” makes me very aware how long it's been since I've had a friend. “You know, I don't really talk to my stepmom about my dad. You said before that I had her to talk to. Anyway, I don't know why I'm telling you this.” I take the first steps of the spiral staircase at the end of the hallway with caution. They were clearly meant for people with tiny feet.

“ 'Cause of my listening skills,” he says from behind me, and I can almost hear his grin. “So what's the thing? You guys don't get along?”

“Actually, before my dad got sick, we used to. We're alike in strange ways—bad-tempered, independent, maybe too straightforward. It just got weird when my dad went into the hospital. I stopped talking for a while, and when I did talk again it felt like she was mad at me. I don't know.”

I reach the top of the stairs, and Jaxon's right behind me. It's everything I imagined a secret room might be. It isn't big, and it has a cozy feel, like an old dusty bookshop in London. There's a heavy antique desk covered in papers and books in front of a tiny square window.

“Okay, this is awesome.” Jaxon runs his hand along the sloped wall. “This must be one of the gables you can see from the street.”

“Gables?” I pick up a book on top of an old leather trunk, and the thrill of finding this place washes away my feelings about school. It's like the library; stacks of books line the room.

“The place where the roof comes to a peak. That's why the walls are sloped.”

“How do you know it's called a gable, though?”

“One of Salem's most popular tourist sites is the House of Seven Gables. I've been there like ten times between field trips and visiting family.”

“Oh,” I say. “It looks as if a lot of these books are about the Witch Trials.”

“Yeah.” Jaxon blows dust off the stack near him. “And your relatives.”

On the desk rests a faded photograph of a beautiful woman with her hair tied loosely in a bun. She grips a little boy's hand. I catch my breath. My dad's smile still looks exactly like that. I run my finger along the gold frame. “This must have been my grandmother's study. She was stunning. I've never seen a picture of her before.”

Jaxon joins me at the desk and peers at the picture. “Your father?”

I nod without looking at him and pick up a leather-bound journal. I open it to the satin ribbon marker. The page is filled with beautiful cursive. I read out loud.

It was a good day of research. I'm delighted by a letter I found in one of Perley's books. Good and thorough historian, Perley was. The letter was written by Dr. Holyoke on Nov. 25, 1791
,
and read: “In the last month, there died a man in this town, by the name of John Symonds, aged a hundred years lacking about six months, having been born in the famous '
92.
He has told me that his nurse had often told him…she saw, from the chamber windows, those unhappy people hanging on Gallows' Hill, who were executed for witches by the delusion of the times.”

Finding Symonds' house in Salem will once and for all clear up the mystery of the hanging spot. I will look for it first thing in the morning. I must go now, however, my teakettle is whistling.

I wrinkle my face. “What do you think this means?” I peer at Jaxon, whose cheek is now close to mine. I breathe in his woodsy smell. “Is she saying people don't know where the witches were hanged?”

“Sounds like it,” says Jaxon. “I always learned it was at Gallows Hill Park. It's possible it's not. I never questioned it.”

The next page is blank. “This was her last entry.” I flip back to the beginning of the journal. Again, I read out loud.

I spoke to the mayor today. Nice and all, but a complete imbecile. He has no idea if the hanging spot is correct. And, he freely admits Upham willy-nilly named the current spot in Gallows Hill Park. Then everyone in this town blindly followed. Upham even admits that he has no evidence for naming that place. Ridiculous.

I've asked the mayor to look into it and he politely brushed me off. Disgraceful, if you ask me, that Salem does not know the most historically important spot in its own town. Mable and I will sort this. My biggest hope is that this will bring me closer to getting my Charles and my Samantha back home to me.

I close the journal, not sure how to process that last line. My grandmother wanted a relationship with me? My dad always said that she was the reclusive eccentric type, which I assumed was a euphemism for grumpy and crazy. I knew they fought, but if she really wanted to see me, she would have, right?

“My mom's name is Mable,” Jaxon says.

“Really?” I pause, looking at my grandmother's picture on the desk. “What do you think she meant by that last line? I don't see how the hanging spot's related to me.” I wonder what his mom knows about this.

“Yeah, it's pretty mysterious. I think we found our paper topic for class, though.”

“The location of the hangings? That's actually a really good idea. It'll be like a treasure hunt, trying to find the place.”

Jaxon's phone rings and he glances at it. “It's my mom. I kinda forgot about a dentist appointment today.”

“Forgot?”

“Or, maybe wanted to come here more.” He turns his body to face mine.

I'm suddenly very aware that my grandmother's journal is between us. “Thanks for being nice to me when no one else is. I can't promise I won't screw it up, though.”

Jaxon smiles. “You're the strangest girl I've ever met.”

I realize I'm smiling, too. “Well I'm not sure what that means about you, since you want to spend time with me.”

“It means—” He leans forward a little. His phone rings again, and I take a step backward.
Was he going to kiss me? Do I want him to kiss me?

He looks disappointed. “Gotta go,” he says, looking at his phone.