Cara Shultz - Spellcaster

I dug back into my eggplant, winding a long string of mozzarella around Aunt Christine’s Christofle fork, hoping that was the end of the conversation.

It wasn’t.

“Emma, dear,” my aunt began, taking off her tortoiseshell-framed eyeglasses and setting them down on the pink-flowered tablecloth—a sure sign that she was about to get serious. “Are things going well with you and your beau? Or are your classmates giving you a hard time again?”

I squirmed underneath Aunt Christine’s intense gaze. Sometimes I think her background in New York theater is a ruse, and she really used to work for the CIA, interrogating prisoners. Her gentle cross-examinations are more effective than water-boarding.

“Yes, Brendan’s fine. Better than fine, actually,” I said honestly. Well, that was the truth. “He’s great. I’ve just got a lot of homework and projects and stuff. Otherwise, school is great.” That part was a big, fat lie. Vince A’s hallways were riddled with so many social land mines it was impossible to make it through the day without a few blowing up in your face.

Still, I smiled winningly, and it seemed to satisfy Christine.

“Well, dear, the weather should be getting nice soon, so you should be able to go jogging again. I know how much you like that. Maybe that will help with some of the stress.”

I nodded in agreement. Kickboxing was fun, but you were always surrounded by so many people. There was something about being alone, with your headphones, just working through your thoughts. And I hadn’t exactly been able to go running with ice on the ground. I’d seen some fanatics jogging through the streets in the snow, and had no idea how they managed to keep from slipping all over the place. But then a darker thought crept into my head—there was some kind of unseen danger lurking out there. Suddenly jogging alone in the park seemed like a very stupid thing for me to do. I kept my smile frozen on my face as my aunt continued talking.

“Don’t stay up too late studying,” she said, polishing off the rest of her spaghetti. “You’re going to be traipsing all over the Cloisters tomorrow, so you’ll want to be awake.”

I smiled and nodded, and went back to picking at my eggplant while Christine got up and walked over to the counter to make a martini—her nightly ritual in honor of her late husband, George. Flamboyant and more than a little dramatic, my theater veteran aunt and uncle used to toast each other every night. After his death, Christine continued that ritual, making two martinis and drinking just the one. (Except on Saturday, when she drank both.) I watched her make the martinis—a ritual I always used to think was sweet—and it now struck me as overbearingly sad. Aunt Christine had lost Uncle George. I had lost my mom and my twin brother within a year of each other. And who knew where the hell my father had gone after he abandoned us when Ethan and I were just kids. My family didn’t have an excellent track record of holding on to the ones we loved. Brendan and I may have broken the original curse, but that didn’t mean we still weren’t doomed. Christine had lost her soul mate, no curse required. What could this dark spell herald for us?

I felt a pang of guilt when I thought of Brendan—I’d texted him that I’d made it home, but used the old homework-and-dinner-with-my-aunt excuse to get out of a phone call. I knew if I called him, I’d tell him about the spell, and I’d end up freaking out…and he’d sneak out later to see me. Like that would go over well with Laura Salinger. Or my aunt, come to think of it.

After clearing the table, I joined Christine on her pink floral couch for the first twenty minutes of the news. But I couldn’t listen to reports on New York’s budget, or the best viewing spots for the upcoming lunar eclipse, or the lighter-side-of-the-news story on the city’s best food trucks. I could feel the stress of the day weighing on me; I excused myself with the same homework line I’d used earlier. I’d barely shut the door to my bedroom when I felt the tears start. I slammed my iPod into its little docking station, turning it on loudly to block out the sounds of my crying and threw myself on my bed, my sobs muffled by my thick purple comforter.

Normally I was the world champion of stuffing my feelings deep down—purely out of survival instinct. I probably would have just curled up into a ball and let the world wash over me if I didn’t find some way to cope—and coping, for me, was to just not think about it. I locked everything away and soldiered on, not letting any cracks show on the surface. But this night, I was too overwhelmed. The cracks showed—Grand Canyon–size cracks—as I let myself feel everything, let the wave of emotion knock me down until I felt like I was drowning. I dwelled on how much I missed my mom, missed Ethan. I wanted my mom to hug me and kiss me on the forehead, to tuck me in with my stuffed puppy doll and tell me everything was going to be okay. I wanted my brother to text me stupid jokes until I felt better. I wanted my family—my whole family. Except my father, he could go to hell for all I cared. But still, I felt the sting of that rejection, and cried again over how hard my mom worked to be both mom and dad to us.

I drowned in every pain, razor-sharp and dull ache, all at the same time, until my chest actually hurt from crying and I was sure my fingers were going to be pruney.

I’d gotten so used to being unhappy, to just functioning, to just getting by. I’d been numb, and been okay with it, until I moved here. And now I felt stupid and ridiculously naive for basking in the untroubled happiness of the past four months. My life wasn’t perfect, but I had friends. My family—what was left of it—loved me. And I was in love. So in love.

But I felt like I would never get the chance to enjoy it.

My phone vibrated on my nightstand, and I grabbed it, finding a text from Brendan. I rubbed my tear-bleary eyes to read it.

I know you’re studying. Just want to say I love you. And you look crazy hot in my sweatshirt. Keep it.

I barked out a little half laugh, half sob at his sweetness, sniffling back my tears as I rolled onto my back. I stared up at the wall my bed was pushed against, my gaze falling on the pictures and mementos I’d taped up like a collage. A picture of my cousin Ashley and me, wearing reindeer antlers at Christmas dinner. A shot of me and Angelique, sitting on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, from my first month at Vince A. A pressed rose from the bouquet Brendan gave me for Valentine’s Day, taped next to a photo booth strip of pictures, mugging for the camera. In the last frame, he has his arms around me, kissing me on the cheek and I’ve got the biggest, most blissed-out grin ever.

I reread his text message, and then wiped my tears on my comforter before jumping off my bed to rifle through the box of limited witch paraphernalia I’d accumulated—some from Angelique, some printouts from research I’d done online. The rest of my homework would have to wait; I had other work to do tonight. Just want to say I love you. It bounced around in my head, reminding me that I deserved to be happy—we both did.

I grabbed one of the textbooks Angelique had given me, flopping onto my bed with it. If something dark and magical was coming after me, then I definitely needed to sharpen my own magical skills.

Crying time was over. Now it was time to prep for battle, because I was not going down without a fight.

I balled up my comforter and rested my head on it as I read the chapter on focusing your emotional energy. I could memorize spells until I knew them better than my own name, but it was no good if I couldn’t focus—and that very focus was the hurdle I couldn’t get over. It was like having a car without knowing how to drive. I reread the chapter a second time, practicing the breathing exercises, which were supposed to help, as almost musical raindrops tinkled against my window, heralding the booming storm that was just a few moments away. A few hours later, I looked at the clock. Thursday had turned to Friday, and I realized that just hours ago my biggest problem was a gaggle of gossipy girls at a bodega, giving me the inquisition because my head-turner of a boyfriend famously rescued me from a psychopathic classmate.