Michelle Krys - Hexed

I shrug. “Yeah, sure, whatev—”

Before I can finish, a large, dark shape whizzes past the windshield and splats onto the pavement with a sickening thud. I slam on the brakes so hard we rocket against our seat belts.

Traffic around us sputters to a halt. Drivers emerge from their cars, and screams pierce the cacophony of the streets. Paige and I exchange wide-eyed glances, then unclick our seat belts and exit the car. As I cautiously edge around the nose of the Sunfire, the dark shape comes into view. My heart hammers in my chest.

It can’t be what I think it is.

I slide my sunglasses up, and all the blood drains from my head.

“Oh my God!” Paige’s fingernails dig into the skin on my arm. “Is that … ?”

I’m frozen in place, my breath lodged in my throat. I watch in mute horror as Paige takes careful steps up to the body that lies facedown on the sidewalk, limbs splayed at impossible angles.

Pedestrians flock around the body. I’m jostled left and right, but I can’t stop staring at the pool of blood expanding beneath the man’s worn leather coat. And I don’t know why, but all I can think is that it’s a hot day to be wearing leather.

A redheaded woman in a jogging suit crouches low and presses her fingers to the man’s neck—a neck covered in tattoos. She nods, and two construction workers rush to help. As the man is flipped onto his back, a crumpled piece of paper tumbles out of his blood-soaked hand.

Only he’s not a man.

There’s so much blood—it drips from a wound under his hair, soaking his tangled black waves; it flows freely from his left ear, from his broken nose, from a gravelly laceration on his cheek; it coats the Ramones T-shirt that clings to his thin frame—but beneath the injuries is very clearly a seventeen-year-old— maybe eighteen-year-old—boy.

Someone screams, a high-pitched, strangled sound that rises above the other voices, the orders being called out, the wail of a siren.

I realize it’s me.

“Out of the way, Indie.” Paige pulls my arm to make way for the paramedics, who rush up with a stretcher. I stumble back but continue to stare at the boy’s dark, vacant eyes.

One of the paramedics pounds on the boy’s chest, landing his full weight onto him as he delivers CPR. But it doesn’t matter. He’s dead. They’re not going to save him.

“Did anyone see what happened?” another paramedic asks. His words float around in my head, but I can’t seem to grasp their meaning. It’s like I’m watching a scene in a movie. This can’t really be happening, not in real life.

“Did you see what happened?” Paige shakes my arm.

“Well?” the paramedic asks, suddenly staring at me.

I swallow hard and give a minute shake of my head.

“No, we didn’t see anything, just … just him landing,” Paige says. She tugs my arm again. “Come on. Let’s give them some space.”

That’s when I see it again—the paper the guy held in his hand, lying crumpled next to the redheaded woman’s feet. I snatch it up, stuffing it in the pocket of my skirt. Paige gives me a quizzical look but doesn’t question me, just leads me back to the car. My legs are so unstable that I have to concentrate hard—one foot in front of the other—to make sure I don’t collapse.

“I can’t believe it,” Paige says once I’ve managed to find a way out of the chaos of cars. The bloody scene fades into the distance, and the canvas awning of the Black Cat comes into view. “You okay, Ind? You don’t look so good.”

I shake my head to clear my thoughts. When I speak again, my throat feels scratchy and my voice comes out a rasp. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

“You sure? Because you look really pale.”

I keep thinking about the boy and the leather coat he wore even though it’s over eighty degrees outside. Which is dumb, because he’s obviously got bigger problems than overdressing for the weather. I use my forearm to wipe sweat from my brow.

“Are you okay to drive?” Paige asks.

I give her what I hope is a confident nod.

The hum of the engine takes over the silence.

“Think it was suicide?” Paige finally asks meekly, like she feels bad even suggesting it.

I don’t have time to answer, because a car miraculously pulls out of the parking spot right in front of the shop, and I’m able to cut off a yellow Mustang to snag it. I could adopt a kid internationally for roughly what this spot will cost me, but it’s worth not having to walk. I want to shake off Paige as quickly as possible so I can be alone and think.

“Thanks for the ride,” Paige says. As we exit the car, I can’t help noticing that we both crane our necks to see the site of the accident a few blocks down the street. But either they cleaned up quickly, or it was farther from the shop than I remembered, because there’s no sign of the chaos of moments ago.

“Ind!”

I squint against the sun and spot Devon climbing out of his BMW a few cars behind me.

Well, this is super. Just great.

Devon jogs up the sidewalk, sun-kissed hair flopping around his tanned face.

“What are you doing here?” I ask as he nears.

“Why, you want me to go?” He gives me that crooked grin and slips his fingers in the belt loops of my skirt, playfully tugging me closer to him.

“No, I just thought … well, Bianca said you were going for burgers or something.”

“The rest of the team went,” he says, brushing a feather-light kiss onto my cheek. “I’d rather be with you.”

His lips move to my mouth just as a double-decker bus drives past, blaring facts about Melrose Avenue through a loudspeaker to the tourists snapping pictures out the windows. I push against Devon’s chest to stop him.

“Who cares about them,” he says, dismissing the tourists with a wave.

“It’s not that,” I say.

“Then what?” He peppers my neck with kisses.

Paige clears her throat.

Devon’s eyes flit to my neighbor, who is still standing awkwardly beside us because that’s how she rolls.

“Who’s your friend?” he asks.

“Paige Abernathy.” She stretches a hand out. “From your fifth-period history class. And also from the last six years of school.”

He shakes her hand and laughs.

“No, seriously,” she says.

“Oh.” Devon’s cheeks get pink, and he scratches his head. “Uh, sorry about that. I don’t know what to say—”

“Yeah, no big deal.” She pushes her shoulders back. “I wouldn’t notice me either if I were the captain of the football team.”

This. Is. Too much.

“Okay!” I grab Devon’s arm and tow him behind me. “Bye, Paige.”

“Wait, what about what happened—”

“Sorry, have to go work now.” I don’t look back, but I know she’s probably staring openmouthed as a fish as I retreat toward the shop.

“Wow, I feel terrible,” Devon says out of the side of his mouth. “I seriously didn’t recognize that girl at all. How do you know her?”

“My neighbor,” I say, leaving out the part about being friends once, long ago.

The bell above the door jingles as we enter the shop and are greeted by the aroma of Murphy Oil Soap and old books.

Mom looks over her shoulder from her perch on a stool in front of the bookcase, feather duster in hand. She’s wearing a black blouse, a black-sequined skirt, ripped leggings, and approximately one ton of silver jewelry in the form of necklaces and bangles; as far as my mother’s wardrobe goes, it’s about the least embarrassing ensemble she could be wearing for an impromptu visit from Devon.

“Hey, Ms. Blackwood,” Devon says.

“If it isn’t Devon Mills! So great of you to visit.” Mom hops off the stool and tosses the duster onto a stack of books, wiping her hands on her skirt. “And look, you’ve even brought my estranged daughter with you.”