Witch Ways (25 page)

Reader, beware, knowledge, as well as love, can be deadly.

After English class, Mrs. Price requested I stay.

My stomach flipped, and not because it knew lunch was going to have to wait.

“Excellent article, Evelynn.” Mrs. Price motioned for me to take a seat.

I pulled up a chair and saw my paper on her desk. I was surprised that there wasn’t one red mark on it. In fact, it looked exactly as it had when I’d first turned it in, which was surprising. Mrs. Price usually returned everyone’s papers covered with painful scratches of red ink. Had I finally written a perfect paper? And if so, why wasn’t there the familiar
WELL DONE!
scrawled across the top?

My stomach flipped again.

Mrs. Price slid her thick glasses up her nose. “You’ve demonstrated not only strong writing skills, but also a true nose for news and the passion that all great journalists need to ferret out a story and pursue it.”

I flushed beneath her praise. “Thank you. So, I’m on the paper?”

Mrs. Price held up her finger. “I’m afraid not.”

“But you said I needed a great article . . . and you just called my article excellent!”

Mrs. Price fished something from her drawer, stood, and carried my article to the waste bin. Seconds later, she flicked the small cylinder in her hand and my article caught fire. The acrid smell of smoke filled the air as flames licked away at my paper, making me feel sick.

Memories of the last time I was in a school on fire flooded me while smoke and ash lifted in the air, mingling with the smell of the dry-erase board and dusty books.

“That’s why what I’m about to say may surprise you.” She dropped the flaming article into the empty trash bin. “You’ll have to write another piece.” She tossed the cigarette lighter back into her top drawer.

“But why?” I fought tears and disappointment, knowing I’d never find another story as compelling as Andrew and Lauren’s.

“I’m sure you’ll stumble across another story, perhaps one less, shall we say, revealing?” She raised an eyebrow at me, as if to ask if I understood what she was trying to say.

I absolutely did not understand what she meant.

Leaning forward, she braced her elbows on her desk. “As you are fully aware, this school—this community—harbors a unique and talented collection of women. The safety of this community is dependent on discretion and trust. I’m afraid that publishing your article may raise unnecessary questions.”

I sat back in my chair. “Because Lauren thought she was a witch?”

Mrs. Price pinched her lips together, but didn’t say a word.

“But she’s dead! Nothing I can say can hurt her!”

“We have said too much already.” Mrs. Price pushed to her feet. “If you wish a place on the paper, you must find and write another article, a
safer
article. I hope, and trust, that in time you’ll understand. And learn to be more judicious.”

I stood slowly, my thoughts reeling.

“I know this must seem harsh, but I can’t guarantee you a place on the paper without a publishable article, and I will not publish an article that might garner suspicions and unnecessary questions.”

“But I don’t even mention witchcraft, or anything . . .”

She lowered her eyebrows, and pointed to the door. “You have until the semester break. I wish you well. You’ll make an excellent addition to our newspaper.”

“Thank you?” I mumbled, feeling dismissed and confused. After gathering up my book bag and glancing at the smoldering ashes in the trash bin, I headed for the door.

“Oh, and Evelynn,” Mrs. Price began.

I turned around.

“It’s not necessary to be a witch to be successful at this school, and in life, but it certainly helps.”

Outside the door, I leaned against the wall, clutching my book bag to my chest. Down the hall and through the open cafeteria doors came the sound of laughter, clinking silverware, and talking—hundreds of students, each trying to be successful academically, musically, athletically, by studying, practicing, and sweating.

She’s wrong,
I decided.
Every day I make the choice of whether or not to be a witch over and over again. Magic and witchyness don’t have to be the key ingredients. I can be my very best self on my own.

***
My Grandfather’s Clock
, Henry Clay Work

“There is no place like home.” Bree, with her hair tied in braids, and a stuffed toy dog in the basket over her arm, took center stage and received a standing ovation. The old theater reverberated with thundering applause, and I imagined the house was pleased with the Thornhill Thespians, and that if Hugh and Lauren were watching, they’d be happy, too—almost as happy as me.

From my place in the chorus of the Munchkins, I could see the first few rows of the auditorium. Uncle Mitch, my dad and Maria, Marcus and Bianca, all sat beside the long string of Hendersons. Josh caught my eye. He held a bouquet of daisies, my favorite flower. I hoped they were for me, but I thought they might be for Bree.

Dylan, lounging against the side-wall, ankles crossed, held a bouquet of red roses. Those, I knew, were for me. The spell on the scones had not worked, and nothing I said or did discouraged Dylan. He still insisted that we belonged together, although he no longer tried to kiss me, especially if Josh was anywhere near.

Birdie was seated in the aisle behind Dylan. I felt her dark eyes watching me, waiting for something that would never happen. A fellow Munchkin grabbed my hand and tugged, reminding me it was our turn to take center stage.

Like all the female Munchkins had been taught to do, I dropped into a deep curtsey and as I did, two ethereal figures caught my eye. Hugh and Lauren watched from the wings. Together at last, holding hands, they bowed low, and I knew they were there just for me.

A wind stirred through Evie’s room, searching. It ruffled the pages of open books, rifled through the papers on her desk, and shifted the clothes hanging in her closet. It skirted beneath the bed and twisted over the furniture, knocking over framed photographs and scattering pens and pencils. Finally, it found the book of spells on the floor beside the sleeping Amber.

The pages, mostly blank, fluttered, but then fell still as the wind hushed. The book remained open to the third page where the last spell was cast and recorded. Finally, the ink dried and the words appeared:

Rainbows, wildflowers, silent stars and musical winds

Let peace settle your soul for the magic begins.

It’s hard to express my profound gratitude to all the important people in my life who’ve been instrumental in my writing journey. I’m always afraid someone who has been key will be forgotten or overlooked. Often a novel will take me years and have a lot of stops and starts along the path to publication, but this one came fairly quickly, and so the important players are easier to name. First, a special thanks to Amazon and the Kindle Scout program. Witch Ways is a stronger, smoother novel because of the insights and suggestions of the Amazon editorial team. And thanks to my editor, Jan Abney, my talented cover designer and daughter, Bethany Barnette, my beta readers, Cynthia Strong and Linda Flynn, my Monday morning critique partners, Melanie Jacobson and Brittany Larson, my friends at Fictionaires, and as always, my husband, Larry who supports me emotionally, spiritually, and in every way imaginable. I’m blessed to have each of you in my life, and to have your help in making my writing dream a reality. And finally, but most importantly, I reverently acknowledge the God that gives me life, breath, love and the ideas that make all things possible.

Please look for Witch Winter, the sequel to Witch Ways, coming soon. If you would like to be notified of its release, please sign up for my newsletter on my blog at kristystories.blogpsot.com. The signup form is on the top, right hand side.

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http://www.amazon.com/Kristy-Tate/e/B005YF4ODA

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