The Zodiac Collector (3 page)

Mary fiddles with the ribbon on her gift. “Grandmother, what happened?”

Gamma's eyes widen like she's choking on past regrets. Then she coughs and shakes her head. “She had a mind of her own and wouldn't settle for a simple life. Her thirst for power became an obsession. It ruined her in the end.”

“Did she die?” I ask.

Mary flinches at the word “die.”

“No. She just…left.” Gamma points a crooked finger in my direction. “I don't want you trying any spells until we get a chance to review the rules, got it?”

The blossoming hope stokes the young, tentative fire of belief tickling my belly. “I promise.”

“This is important, Anne. There's a lot of good magick in that book, but if done incorrectly, bad things can happen.”

Her warning threatens to blow out the flames warming my heart. “I swear.” I slash an “X” across my heart with a finger.

“All right, then.” Gamma directs her attention to Mary. “Open yours.”

Mary bites her lip and carefully peels the tape holding the edges in place. She unfolds each corner, creating a little paper placemat. The box is white and unmarked, so she untucks the lid and pries it open. A delighted squeal blazes from her. “Grandmother, it's exactly the one I wanted!”

Gamma laughs.

She lifts the mini-digital camera from its tissue-paper bed with both hands and turns it this way and that.

“I already put a battery in it. The original packaging is in the living room. It has instructions. I wanted to surprise you, so I put it in this old thing.” Gamma picks up the box and closes the lid.

Mary taps the power button and immediately starts clicking photos of Castor and Pollux. They try to sniff the camera and practically knock each other out of the way to be the first to investigate it.

She pauses in her photo shoot and fiddles with more buttons. “Whoa. I can do so much more with this camera than my old one. Thanks, Grandmother!” She hooks an arm around Gamma.

“I'm glad you like it.” She pats Mary's arm, then turns to me. “Now, I have some things to tell you about that book.”

I lean forward to listen, still clutching the leathery treasure to my chest.

“Magick can be tempting. And it's not a simple thing. There are consequences.”

“I won't do any dark stuff, I swear.”

“That's not what I mean. All spells can be dark if done wrong. I'm serious when I tell you not to chant any of the spells or make any of the potions until I teach you.”

“I promise. No spell stuff until you teach me.”

Gamma wags a finger in the air. “This is different from regular magick. It draws on Zodiac power. Be mindful of your sign. Do not take the Gemini twins' energy willy-nilly. What you take must be given back.”

“What do you mean?”

“Read the book. Then we'll talk.” She stands and ushers us to the front door. Castor and Pollux follow obediently.

We snap on their leads and direct them outside.

When we get to the sidewalk, Gamma calls to me from the front porch. “And don't think you can change people with magick, Anne. Your mother is your mother.”

Her words haunt me all the way home.

Chapter Three

I
run the flat iron over my hair what feels like a hundred thousand times. Mary plays with her new camera while she waits. She's probably filled most of her memory card with snapshots of Castor and Pollux. Knowing her, she'll spend the next several weeks analyzing each shot, editing and tweaking, before choosing one to add to her wall of art. Her art teacher, Mr. Weaver, loves her “eye for composition.” His favorite shots—a macrophoto of a lily, a black and white photo of Dad's blacksmith shoppe, a mess of Tarot cards flung over a table—capture a different part of the faire.

Section, clamp, drag. Repeat. I love the sheen of straight hair. Too bad I was born with the tightest curls since that Orphan Annie kid.

“You almost finished? We'll miss the movie.” Mary slides off her bed and into the desk chair.

I check the clock. Seven. William is meeting us at the theater in a half-hour. “The movie doesn't start until eight.”

“Do you have to be late for everything?” She plugs the camera into our laptop. The thing is so old that the letters on the keyboard are all but worn off and there's a crack in the case. Gamma gave it to us on our thirteenth birthday. Mary—always the organized one—set up a schedule for us to share it. It keeps fighting to a relative minimum.

“Do you have to be early to everything?” I nestle a sparkly headband into my hair and check for lumps one more time. My T-shirt has a rhinestone flower on the mini breast pocket, playing off the design on my headband. I tuck my feet into silver flats, completing my outfit. Hope is sparkly, and I'm the embodiment of it. “Okay. Ready.”

Mary finishes downloading her photos and unplugs her camera. She tucks it in her jeans pocket and grabs her purse. The red piping on the purse matches her red polka-dot shirt.

We kiss Castor and Pollux goodbye. Before leaving the room, I tuck Gamma's spellbook into my pillowcase. The chances of Mom leaving her gowns to toss our bedroom are slim, but I just can't leave the thing out. Mary will have to keep her new camera hidden from now on, too. If she ever puts it down, that is.

Mom hates it when Gamma gives us things. Says it spoils us too much and makes us lazy. Of course, no one can match her energy during a manic episode, so she thinks
everybody
is lazy. To her, sleeping is a waste of time. So are things like showering regularly, eating ice cream—it's frivolous—and watching TV.

Dad drives us to the mall in his pale blue, rusted-out pickup truck. The name of his smithy shop,
Devans's Forgeries
, is painted on each door. Mom and Dad slap our surname on everything—T-shirts, business cards, mugs, pens, and tote bags. They send flyers to all our neighbors, take out ads in the high-school yearbook, and buy full-page spreads in the newspaper. They make overkill seem mild.

Dad's hands and clothes are all black from smelting. As the faire's blacksmith, he creates metal sculptures, weapons, horseshoes, gates, light fixtures, even furniture like benches and tables. The faire opens the day after tomorrow—Sunday—and runs for two weeks. Our birthday is smack dab in the middle of it, on the summer solstice and right on the cusp of Gemini.

“Call me when the movie gets out.” Dad pulls the truck up to the curb.

Mary hops out first and I follow.

“Thanks, Dad,” I say.

Inside, the air conditioning smacks away the early June humidity. The smells of salty, fatty, good things from the food court surround us and set my mouth to watering. Easy-listening music filters through the speakers. I don't know why the mall gods bother with that. Probably costs a lot and there isn't one person I've met who actually likes the sound of it.

We find William lingering by the box office. An easy slouch defines his calm style. So do his V-neck T-shirt, low-slung paint-stained jeans, and flip-flops. His dark hair forks in several different directions, carefree and untamed, framing his melt-my-heart blue eyes. My heart flutters. How he can make I-don't-care-how-I-look hot is beyond me.

I hesitate. I've known William since before kindergarten. We used to play in the sandbox together at the park. We shared buckets and mini-shovels and knocked over each other's sand castles. In first and second grade, we shimmied into the same tractor tire planted in the ground and told stories to one another during recess. In third grade, we shared crayons and colored pencils and created our own faire-based cartoon story. By the time we reached fourth grade, we had a system down for tag-teaming each other in gym, and in fifth we split our money to share snacks from the vending machine. It wasn't until sixth grade that we begged to have our lunch periods changed so we could eat together. In seventh, we had the same study hall and helped each other with homework. In eighth, we swore to take the same high-school classes and have continued the tradition each year since.

We're inseparable. Well, we were, until about six months ago. Right before winter break, William surprised me with a Christmas present—an autographed copy of
Watership Down
by Richard Adams. My most favorite book ever.

That moment changed everything. It sparked a war of Operation Fuzzy Confusion and Mission Sharp Excitement in my head. Operation FC would fire a he's-just-a-friend rocket to blast Mission SE to bits. Mission SE would retaliate by launching a see-that-spark-in-his-eyes-means-he's-into-you missile at Operation FC. Each camp, entrenched in its own stubborn side, raged on day after day, leaving me dizzy from casualties on both sides.

Mary hooks her arm around mine and drags me ahead. “Something wrong? William's over there, by that bench.”

“Hey.” He waves at us and smiles. Darn his dimples.

I return the smile on reflex, fully supporting Mission SE. “Hi. Been working at the faire?”

“Yeah, the jousting arena needed some touching up.” He scratches some yellow paint off his arm and sits, angling his body away from me.

“Ready to get tickets?” I stuff my hands in my jeans pockets and roll from my heels to my toes. My heart's pumping faster than usual, carrying me to the Operation FC side.

“Got 'em.” He holds up four tickets.

“Four? Who else is coming?” Mary asks.

“Evan.” William tips his head and focuses his gaze behind us.

On cue, Evan Wu jogs up to us. “What's up?” He's taller than Mary and me by four inches—two of which are made up by his spiked hair. His navy polo shirt is the exact same shade as his dark-wash jeans and Converse sneakers. Navy hipster glasses round out his monochrome look. Evan has a pair of glasses to match every outfit. On anybody else, it'd be totally weird, but it works for him.

And it works for Mary. She drives her toe into the floor and fidgets with her hair, twisting a curl so tight it folds in on itself.

I raise an eyebrow at her.

She glares back at me and lowers her hand. “Let's go.”

We take the escalator up to the theaters and make a pit stop at the concession stand. Chatter from families, groups of friends, and kids surge around us. It's a lively Friday night crowd. I bet most of them are heading to the same flick we are.

I yank on the hem of William's T-shirt. “Why don't you get the snacks while Mary and I save some seats?”

He gives me two tickets. “Good idea. What do you want?”

I fork over a twenty. “Nachos and a blueberry Slushee.”

“Junior Mints, please,” Mary squeaks. She's still positioning herself as far away from Evan as possible—making sure William and I are between them—regardless of the constraints of the folks pressing behind us.

He folds the money and pins it between his index and middle finger. “You got it, but it's my treat, okay?” He holds the bill out to me.

I flip back to Mission Sharp Excitement and accept the Andrew Jackson, flashing him a broad smile. “We'll try for the upper level, first row.” I scoot out of line and rush to the theater with Mary in tow.

Since we're early—yes, I managed to get my hair done with time to spare, much to Mary's surprise—we get the seats we want.

“Where should we put the guys?” I ask.

“William should sit next to you and Evan can sit on the other side.” Mary's leg is shaking so hard I can feel the tremors in my butt.

“What's wrong with you?” I extend my legs and prop my feet on the bar in front of us.

“What do you mean? Nothing.” She slouches down and folds her hands across her belly, staring straight ahead.

“You're acting totally weird around Evan.”

“You should talk, the way you flirt with William.”

“I'm not flirting with him.”

“You totally are.”

“Whatever.” It's my turn to study the expansive white screen. Dark red curtains frame the thing and line the walls. Speakers and dim, rectangular sconces hang every few feet.

“William's a good guy,” Mary says softly.

“So's Evan,” I counter.

She goes back to futzing with her hair.

“You should talk to him.”

“Don't push me.”

I roll my eyes.

The boys arrive, arms laden with popcorn, nachos, drinks, and candy.

William sits next to me and Evan takes the open seat next to him, just like Mary wanted. Avoid, avoid, avoid. She'll go to her grave avoiding things. Doesn't make her any safer.

“You bought enough to feed the whole theater.” I take my nachos and hand Mary her Junior Mints.

“I'm hungry.” He shrugs and sets my Slushee in the cup holder between us.

Evan tears into a package of Twizzlers with his teeth and chomps on three at a time. Mary steals glances at him while delicately opening her candy.

The theater goes dark and the previews start. I focus on my nachos.
Crunch, crunch, crunch
. So cheesy, salty,
yummy
.

I lick my fingers clean and reach for my Slushee. My fingers circle around…

…another hand.

“Eek!” I let go and nearly toss my food.

William starts laughing. “Sorry,” he snorts, “forgot that was yours.”

“Y-yeah, it's okay.” I pick up the drink and suck on the straw until my mouth fills up with sugary ice. While the opening credits roll, I replay the moment in my mind. All I can think about is how slippery my fingers are and how disgusting it is that I slimed his hand with my spit.

I shudder. It's hard to tell if it's from the Slushee expanding in my stomach or the panic rising from my spine. Did I gross him out? No. He laughed. If he'd been turned off by it, he'd have yelled, or something.

Searing pain stabs my eyes. “Dang!” I spit out the straw and pinch the bridge of my nose.

Mary elbows me. “What's going on?”

“Brain freeze.” I lean forward and plop the cup on the floor. Pinching the top of my nose, I pray for the agony to subside. Instead, it intensifies. “Ow, ow, ow.”