Cara Shultz - Spellbound

The whole scene made me very, very uneasy. This was the real Anthony, I figured—not the charming sweetheart that my cousin thought he was. I turned to Cisco and said, “I’m out of here. Tell everyone I said bye, okay?”

“Tell everyone? Or tell him?” Cisco replied, with smart-alecky emphasis on the “him.” Before I could answer, Cisco said, “Actually, tell him yourself.” I looked up and saw Brendan walking over, a little faster than I was used to seeing him move.

“Hey, guys—Anthony and Frank had a fight at practice and clearly are taking things home with them. Anthony said something about Frank’s mother. Anthony’s an idiot. He’s not going to start anything else tonight, though,” he explained, looking back and forth between both of us. Brendan then stopped and turned those emerald eyes back on me.

“You’re leaving.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yeeeah.” I drew it out slowly. “I’m— I’ve got to get home. Curfew, you know,” I lied, hastily draining the rest of my iced tea, then shuddering from the cold drink.

Brendan just nodded. “I’ll walk you to a cab,” he said quietly. He stayed silent, walking toward Fifth Avenue with his hands stuffed in his jeans pockets until we were back in front of the museum, looking down the street for an available taxi.

“That was nice of you to get Austin a cab,” I said a little formally, leaning against a lamppost. I wasn’t sure what to say to him all of a sudden.

“Least I could do. He’s your friend, right?” Brendan said matter-of-factly. “I guess.”

“He sits right next to you at lunch every day,” Brendan pointed out. Wait, did he get Austin a cab for me? Does he think I’m dating Austin?

Before I could clear up my relationship with Austin, Brendan spoke. “Did Anthony scare you?” he asked, his eyes searching mine.

“No,” I fibbed, then looked down. “Well, I wouldn’t say scared….” I mumbled, hiding my embarrassment by picking at some chipped paint on the lamppost.

“I wouldn’t let him hurt you,” Brendan said, his voice almost a whisper. I was taken aback by how seriously he said it. I tore my eyes away from the flaking paint to face Brendan, and was surprised at how close he was to me. His face was mere inches from mine. I took a deep breath, getting lost in those eyes as the lamppost above me flickered on and off. I could see the light dancing in the flecks of gold in his eyes, as he stayed close to me. The light fizzled out with a thin hiss, but I could still see the intensity in his eyes in the shadows. Brendan rested his palm on the iron street lamp behind me. He leaned in more closely, and I let my fingers brush against his side, skimming along his dark shirt. I felt that familiar fluttering in my stomach again, hoping, praying that he was going to kiss me. Brendan was so close I could smell his shampoo again, which overpowered the sulfuric smell from the burned-out light above.

But Brendan stopped short—pulling back and flagging the lone available cab cruising down Fifth. I straightened up awkwardly. If I wasn’t already red from the cold, I would have blushed a thousand shades of crimson.

“Thanks,” I mumbled weakly. “And yeah—thanks for this,” I said, pulling the hoodie off.

“Keep it, it’s cold out,” Brendan said, his tone businesslike as he opened the taxi door for me. He gave me another smile, then, slamming the door shut once I was inside, he turned on his heel.

I woke up late on Saturday morning, feeling oddly exhausted for having slept so long. I’d had the most vivid, disturbing dreams. They didn’t make any sense—at first, all I saw were images of me. I was wearing my charm necklace—but I was wearing different outfits. They were costumes, almost—it looked like I was flipping through some kind of scrapbook that spanned centuries.

The scrapbook stopped short at one photo; in it, I was dressed in a heavy-looking gown, tending to beautiful roses that climbed up the stone face of a picturesque cottage.

The photo came alive and suddenly I was in the scene, feeling the weight of the heavy gold dress. I removed dead petals from a perfect red rose, which had just started to wilt, when I sliced open my finger on a razor-sharp thorn. I felt it rip through my flesh, shredding my skin. I pulled away my finger, gripping it tightly to stop the bleeding. But it wouldn’t stop. Blood poured down my hand, pooling in the grass as I felt something warm on my chest. I looked down, and blood seeped across the front of my bodice, soaking the front of the gold dress with deep crimson.

I pawed at my chest but couldn’t find the wound, my fingers frantic as I searched my bloody skin for an injury.

A familiar voice called me from behind. I whipped around, and my brother Ethan was standing among the roses. Even though I was dressed in this heavy medieval-looking gown, my twin looked the way I remembered him, in jeans, ratty Converse sneakers and a Ramones T-shirt.

“Emma, it’s starting,” Ethan said, his voice sad. “Stay away from him.”

I bolted upright in bed as if I had been shocked by a Taser. It felt like Ethan was right next to me, his voice as real as the ambulance siren I heard wailing in the street four floors below me.

I hadn’t dreamed about Ethan in some time. I tried to shake the weird dream off, but it was too unsettling. I chalked it up to my subconscious going haywire. I’d avoided telling Brendan about him last night, after all. That had to be the cause of the weird dream. Right?

I stretched out in the bed and rubbed my eyes, looking over at my pile of clothing on the floor—my boots strewn about, my jeans crumpled up with my socks still in the legs. The previous night came flooding back to me when my eyes flickered over to the white-painted desk chair, where I’d carefully laid Brendan’s hoodie. I covered my face and giggled, then frowned when I looked at my grimy hands.

Ugh, I’d forgotten to wash my face when I came in last night! I’d walked to my room in a daze—thanks to Brendan’s near-kiss—and started writing in my diary. I jumped out of bed and padded into the bathroom, trying to remove the now-smeared dark mascara that had taken up residence all over my face. I stopped and looked at my reflection—cowlick sticking up straight, hair knotted, raccoon eyes—and giggled again. I looked like a goth model. I sucked in my cheeks and attempted a serious, model-like pose.

“What’s up, Zoolander?” I said aloud, splashing water on my face. I was in too good of a mood this morning.

My attempts to wash my face just ended up in streaking mascara all over the place, so I hopped into the shower, turned on the pink plastic shower radio and sang along to a Paramore song, scrubbing my face.

Slipping into my worn plaid bathrobe, I pulled my wet hair back with a large clip, and opened the door to find a giddy Ashley standing there. I was not expecting to see anything but the short hallway back to my room—so I screamed.

She screamed back.

“What the— You can’t just do that to people!” I huffed, leaning against the door frame.

“Sorry! I forgot that you had a cell phone now and I could just call you! I was afraid Christine would give me the third degree about you and Cisco if I called the apartment.”

“Ashley, for the last time, me and Cisco are not—”

“Whatever,” she interrupted, “I had to tell you the good news in person anyway.” She was a little waterfall, overflowing with good cheer. Ashley practically skipped back to my room, her high red ponytail bouncing on the top of her head like a genie. I saw my aunt, savoring her morning coffee in the kitchen. “Hold on a second,” I told Ashley.

“Aunt Christine, thank you so much for the cell phone,” I said, giving her a big hug. She hugged me back, a little more tightly than she usually did, then returned to her usual stiff demeanor.