Spell Check (7 page)

“Jail break!” I stormed the jail, affecting their release. Joyous screams filled the autumn air.

The whistle shrilled. Coach Willis strode onto the field, where Tommy and Evan hung on Jordan like vile leeches.

“Jordan! Tommy! Evan! Unnecessary roughness. Everyone in the class, run a lap.”

Several students booed. I could have sworn Jordan winked at me. My stomach fluttered. I leaned over, hands clutching my thighs, and dragged air into my lungs.

Parvani caught up with me. “Are you okay?”

I nodded. The pack swept us up into a slow jog.

“Can you believe he defended my honor?” Parvani knocked a clump of muddy grass from her jeans.

“Who? Jordan?”

She scrunched up her face. “Of course Jordan.”

Funny, I could have sworn he’d taken down the Smash Heads to protect me. Not wanting to argue, I changed the subject. “You were awesome. I can’t believe you cut in front of Tommy.”

“I’m glad my team didn’t boo me. And you! I couldn’t believe your suicide run. What possessed you?”

Jordan.

I shrugged and acted like I was too out of breath to talk. When Parvani wasn’t looking, I searched the ragtag runners for a head of highlighted wavy brown hair. I spotted him just as he glanced back. Our gaze collided and his smile made me falter and almost fall.

I had entered Jordanland, and I didn’t know how to turn back.

Chapter Ten

“Evie, may I see you?” Señora Allende said as the bell rang and students hurried off to lunch.

If my math teacher had uttered those words, I’d be dry heaving. But since Spanish is one of my best subjects, I said, “Sure.” I shouldered my backpack and waited for the room to clear before approaching Señora’s cluttered desk.

“A unique situation has arisen.” She pronounced it seet-u-a-she-on. It was so Antonio Banderas, I had to press my lips together to keep from smiling.

Señora brushed back her salt and pepper hair. It was cut along her jawline, framing her high cheekbones. “I have an excellent student,” she continued, “who anticipates missing class a lot over the next month.”

“Is she sick?” My mind flashed back to a girl who had become anorexic last year and had to be hospitalized for six weeks.

“No, he isn’t sick. But he does want the nature of his absences to be kept secret. He’s an A student, and doesn’t want to fall behind. He’s only available for tutoring on Saturdays at four o’clock.”

I shifted my weight, putting two and two together and actually reaching four. “So he can’t go to the Tutoring Center.”

“No, and I’m unavailable on Saturdays due to a family commitment.” Señora jabbed a well-chewed pencil into the crowded mesh cup on her desk. “Which is where you come in. The boy is a fellow freshman. He wants someone trustworthy to help him keep up. You’d earn seven bucks an hour.”

Dollar signs leapfrogged in my mind. There were two boys in the school I would refuse to help, and one of them took French. I prayed the other took German. “It isn’t Tommy Deitch, is it?”

Señora snorted. Tommy’s name must have come up a few times in the teacher’s lounge. “No, it’s not Tommy.”

“Then I’ll do it.”

“¡Bueno! He can meet you at your house or the library, whichever is more convenient for you.”

A pang of worry knotted my stomach. I didn’t want some mansion muchacho making fun of our cracked tile and running toilet. The library would be a better meeting place, but then my mom would have to drive me.

Señora pulled her purse out of her desk drawer then stood. “He’ll need to start this weekend.”

I decided to risk it. “Okay, tell him my house.”

Señora beamed. “Muchas gracias, Evie. I’ll give Zhù your address.”

Confusion skidded across my brain. “Zhù Wong?”

“Sí. You know him?”

“He’s a friend of a friend.” I wondered what would make Zhù miss class. Maybe she hadn’t told me the truth. Maybe he was ill.

Señora dragged her purse strap over her shoulder. “Please respect his privacy and tell no one.”

I hoped Zhù didn’t have something life-threatening. Parvani would never forgive me for keeping it from her. “I promise not to tell.”

“Bueno.”

Dismissed, I headed out the door and down the hall, no doubt frowning just like Mom. A few students had clustered under the overhang near the lockers, but everyone else seemed to be in the cafeteria already. I rounded the corner of the building and almost ran into Miss Ravenwood.

The temperature plummeted at least ten degrees. Miss Ravenwood scowled down at me and I swear I heard the witch’s theme song from The Wizard of Oz. I clutched my Spanish folder to my chest and averted my gaze. Miss Ravenwood swept past me, her disdain palpable.

I blew out a long breath. For once, I was glad I sucked at math.

Parvani and, to my surprise, Salem, were waiting for me outside Mr. Ross’s door.

“Where have you been?” Parvani asked.

“Señora Allende needed to ask…”

Mr. Ross poked his head out. “Girls? I have to take off. If you want to use the room you’ll have to come in now and lock the door.”

“May Sarah join us?” Parvani pushed her glasses higher up her nose. “We promise we won’t let anyone else in.”

Mr. Ross hesitated. His glance flicked over Salem’s eyebrow stud and makeup. Instead of her usual neo-medieval blouse, she wore a black tee shirt emblazoned with a skull and crossbones. He probably wondered how many school supplies she would steal. I held my breath, willing him to trust our judgment.

“Okay, she can stay,” he finally said. “But no one else.” We let ourselves in while he checked his pockets for his keys. “I’ll be back soon,” he warned. The heavy door closed behind him with a click.

We threw our backpacks on the table nearest the television and scraped back three molded plastic chairs. “I was going through my parents’ old yearbooks last night,” Salem said in a conspiratorial whisper. “And I found this.” She pulled a mud-colored yearbook out of her pack. Jefferson High School, 1974 angled in pale green lettering across the front.

“My parents were eleventh graders in ‘74.” Salem opened the yearbook to a page she had marked with a hot pink sticky note. “But look at the ninth grade class.” She pointed to a flinty-eyed girl on the right hand page.

“Miss Ravenwood?” Parvani said in disbelief. “She went here?”

My parents had graduated from Jefferson, too. I did some quick subtraction on my fingers. “Wait a minute.” I glanced at the names accompanying the photos on the left hand page, and there it was, like a sucker punch, Deaman O’Reilly. Dad, fourteen years old, his hair windblown and his eyes bright with imagined adventure.

“Did you find it?” Salem asked.

“Yes.” The word came out as a croak.

Parvani leaned closer to the page. “What?”

“Evie’s mom. Her picture is here too.”

“My mother?” I scanned the rows of smiling faces. Mom’s familiar, knowing eyes snagged my attention. Olivia Portland.

“Am I right?” Salem asked.

“Yes.” I drifted back to Dad.

Parvani gasped and pointed to his picture. “There’s Evie’s father.”

Salem bent over the page. “But his byline always says Dash O’Reilly.”

“Said,” I corrected, my voice thick. “A fellow cameraman gave him the nickname because he was always dashing into danger.”

The laugh track erupted on the television.

“I bet they knew each other,” Parvani said. “Evie, you should ask your mom.”

“I will.”

“Maybe you could find her yearbook,” Parvani suggested. “See if Miss Ravenwood wrote anything in it.”

Bad blood. No wonder Mom had stiffened when she saw Miss Ravenwood in Sage Mage.

Parvani clapped her hands together. “Maybe Miss Ravenwood put a curse on you when you were born. It would explain why you can’t do math.”

“Right.” Salem rolled her eyes.

My gaze darted from Dad, to Mom, to Miss Ravenwood. The musty yearbook smell had faded, driven away by a spicy, gypsy scent. I glanced at the door, certain I heard the distant tinkle of tiny pewter bells.

Chapter Eleven

I slunk into Algebra, the self-esteem sucking black hole, and took my seat. Mr. Bentley was scribbling on the blackboard. His military-style buzz cut glistened beneath the fluorescent lights, and the pockets of his navy slacks were streaked with chalk.

My stomach growled. In all the commotion, I had skipped lunch. Great. Now I’d be even dumber than usual. As I pulled out my homework, I wondered if Miss Ravenwood really had cursed me.

Mr. Bentley wrote:

Hardy-Weinberg Equilibrium

p=the frequency of the dominant allele A

q=the frequency of the recessive allele a

The sum of the alleles must = 100%

Mr. Bentley might as well have said, “Two trains left the station at the same time. If Train A was going x miles an hour and Train B was going…” Kill me now.

The person in front of me handed back copies of a blank graph. I placed one of the graphs on top of my notebook and passed the remaining sheets to the stoner behind me. Chalk screeched against the blackboard. From beneath the sweat-stained brim of Dad’s cap, I watched Mr. Bentley write: p2 + 2pq = q2 + 1.

The little squares on the graph blurred. I planted my elbows on the desk and clutched the sides of my head. Old resentment spiraled through me. I bet Jordan already knows all this. Parvani too.

The second hand on the wall clock ticked. Twelve-fifty and one second, twelve-fifty and two seconds, twelve-fifty and three seconds…

“Quiz on Friday, ladies and gentlemen.”

A sinking, nauseous feeling slammed my insides. I hope Teen Wytche has a spell for improving your math grade.

****

I needed a boost to face Yearbook. I needed to feel like someone other than Evie O’Reilly, loser. So I ducked into the girls’ bathroom. Guilt and excitement warred within me as I fished the tube of Nearly Nude lipstick out of my backpack. I’d once heard an anchorwoman on television say you should wear lipstick the same color as your tongue. Weird, I know, but the reds made me look like Lucille Ball. The bronzes made me look ill. No way could I show up wearing one of Salem’s black-death shades.

The Nearly Nude lipstick had a faint petroleum smell and tasted a little yucky. Still, I could almost be mistaken for hot. Mom would so ground me for a month.

I’ll let Jordan see me in Biology, I decided, and then wipe off the lipstick before I cross the field. Mom would never know.

I slipped the film can necklace over my head for added confidence, and prayed I wouldn’t run into either of the Smash Heads. Hallie, my formerly ill photographer, strode up the ramp to Room 222. Relieved, I nearly kissed the plastic necklace. Maybe I had found my talisman.

“We have lots of work to do today,” Miss Roberts announced as I took my seat. “I’d like to meet with the layout artists to discuss concept ideas. Photographers…” She eyed the room. “I see Zhù isn’t here today. Hallie, grab a camera. We need more fashion photos. Evie…”

The wall phone rang. While Miss Roberts walked over to it, I glanced toward the door and willed Zhù to materialize.

Miss Roberts hung up the phone and sighed. “Evie, you are wanted in the office.”

The lipstick burned my lips. Mom knows. Had the school installed a spy camera in the bathroom? I am so dead. Then my heart splashed down somewhere in my large intestine. I’ve been called to the office once before—the day my dad had died.

I grabbed my backpack. Heat flooded my neck and face—I was sure all eyes were on me. At least Jordan wasn’t in this class. Miss Roberts said something about caption writers. A hum like a funeral dirge swelled in my ears, drowning her words.

Outside, I pulled a tissue from the front pocket of my backpack and swiped at my lips while I walked the empty corridor between the two hundred and three hundred blocks of classrooms. The office was just beyond the bathrooms, across from Room 301 and a cluster of lockers. I swallowed hard and opened the door.

I half hoped and half dreaded Mom would be there. She wasn’t. If she didn’t know about the lipstick, then something must have happened to her or Nana…

“Evie?”

I flinched, heart in turbo-panic. “Yes?”

Mrs. Scroggins, the school secretary, stared down her bifocals. “Miss Gaya would like a word with you.”

“Miss Gaya?”

“The new counselor.” Mrs. Scroggins led me down the Employees Only hall to a back office. The door stood ajar. An air of counting-the-years-to-retirement clung to the middle-aged woman seated behind the metal desk. Seeing me, she rose from her chair.

“Thank you, Mrs. Scroggins.” Miss Gaya’s layered, filmy green dress swayed as she leaned across the desk and shook my hand. “You must be Evie O’Reilly.”

“Yes, I am. Is my mother all right?”

“Please be seated. Your mother is fine. I just called her.”

I sank into the blue plastic chair.

Miss Gaya closed the door then returned to her seat. Her gaze jumped to my film can necklace then back up to my eyes.

“I understand you weren’t well in Yearbook yesterday. How are you feeling today?”

I forced a smile. “Well, thank you.”

“Good.” Miss Gaya pushed up her sleeves and gave me a long look. I got the distinct feeling she didn’t believe me. I shifted in my seat and wished the old school counselor wasn’t on maternity leave.

“Your friends are worried about you, Evie. So I wanted to introduce myself and see if I can help you in any way.”

Yeah, like you’d know anything about solving my problems.

Miss Gaya clasped her hands together and hunched forward. “Is there anything you’d like to talk about?”

Several things flashed through my mind—the love spell, Jordan and Parvani, Dad, Mom, and Miss Ravenwood, getting out of Biology, and again, the love spell.

“No,” I said.

She nodded and leaned back in her chair. The small office grew quiet. My stomach growled. Out in the hall, the copy machine hummed to life. Miss Gaya picked up a pen and held it between her fingers like a cigarette. “It’s been almost two years since your father died?”

A lump rose in my throat. “Yes.”