Season of the Witch Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2013 by Mariah Fredericks

  Jacket photograph copyright © 2013 by 68Beats

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Schwartz & Wade Books, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  Schwartz & Wade Books and the colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Visit us on the Web! randomhouse.com/teens

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Fredericks, Mariah.

  Season of the witch/Mariah Fredericks.—1st edition.

  p. cm.

  Summary: “A girl who is bullied experiments with witchcraft in order to get revenge on her attackers”—Provided by publisher.

  ISBN 978-0-449-81277-8 (hc) — ISBN 978-0-449-81278-5 (lib. bdg.) — ISBN 978-0-449-81279-2 (ebook)

  [1. Bullying—Fiction. 2. Witchcraft—Fiction. 3. Revenge—Fiction. 4. High schools—Fiction. 5. Schools—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.F872295Se 2013

  [Fic]—dc23

  2012040028

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v3.1

  This one is for Kristen—

  “Thunderbolt and

  lightning—

  very, very frightening me.”

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  About the Author

  YOU KNOW HOW IT IS with little girls. It’s all about the princesses. Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Ariel—gorgeous cartoon females yearning for their princes and trapped by jealous old witches. When I was a kid, me and my two best friends, Francesca and Elodie, had a princess club. Every day at school, we’d get together at recess and do the princess thing. The rules were strict: You could not be a princess if you didn’t wear a dress to school that day. You could not be a princess unless you had something pink on your person—socks, hair band, whatever. And you had to have a favorite. In case you care, mine was Snow White. I was wild for that black hair–red lips combo.

  However, it was understood that you played a princess who had the same color hair as you. Francesca had blond hair, so she could do Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty. Elodie had red hair, perfect for Ariel. I had dark brown hair, which meant I was stuck with Belle from Beauty and the Beast. No one ever wanted to play the Beast, so we didn’t do a lot of Belle stories.

  We couldn’t do Snow White either, no matter how much I begged. Francesca said Snow White was too scary for her. So, for one reason or another, I never got to do my story.

  When we played Cinderella, I was the stepmother and Elodie was the fairy godmother. We did Little Mermaid. Francesca was the made-up part of Flounder’s sister, Goldie, and I was Ursula. Once I said we had to do Mulan, but Francesca and Elodie got bored with it because she wasn’t really a princess and there was only one girl part. Also, she cut off her hair, which was a big fat no-no.

  And that’s how it was. Day after day, we would meet by the old iron bench under the tree in the recess yard. While the rest of the kids were climbing and swinging and chasing each other, Francesca and Elodie would sigh and dream and pretend to talk to woodland creatures—while I got stuck playing whatever lousy role they gave me.

  And what I started wondering was, why did they get to decide? Who put them in charge?

  One day, we were on the playground. Our teacher, Ms. Tina, was standing by the door, keeping an eye on the boys in case they started shoving. Francesca and Elodie were sitting on the little bench, trying to decide whether we would do the scene where Cinderella’s stepmother says she can’t go to the ball or the one where the fairy godmother turns the pumpkin into a coach. I stood to one side, waiting to hear if I was a stepsister, one of the mice, or what.

  And that’s when I said “I’m tired of Cinderella.”

  Francesca and Elodie looked at each other. Francesca said, “It was your day yesterday. I get to pick today.”

  “My” day. We had spent “my” day with me singing to my backpack, which was standing in for the talking clock, while Elodie said “Belle wouldn’t say that” and “Those aren’t the words to the song.”

  Francesca looked stormy. I had never challenged her before. If I pushed too hard, I could very well be kicked out of the club. Which meant I would have to hang out by myself in the dirt patch at the end of the playground.

  So I said, “What about Sleeping Beauty?” Francesca would be Aurora, but there were a lot of good parts in Sleeping Beauty: the fairies, the mom …

  Francesca thought about it, then said sweetly, “Okay. But you have to be the witch.”

  The witch. We never did witches. Supposedly, the whole reason we couldn’t do Snow White was because the witch was too scary. In Sleeping Beauty, we always did the scene when the fairies are dancing around getting ready for Aurora’s birthday.

  Seeing me hesitate, Francesca said, “You’re so good at Ursula.”

  Meaning: You’re a good bad guy. You’d be a great witch.

  But playing the witch would be like a curse. I knew if I played her this one time, I wouldn’t ever get to be a princess again. But if I said no, I still wouldn’t get to be a princess, because I’d be kicked out of the club.

  So I said, “Okay.”

  While Francesca and Elodie tried to decide who Elodie would be—Aurora’s mom or one of the fairies—I tried to figure out how to do the witch. Her name was Maleficent. Even not knowing what the name meant, I could feel its darkness.

  Maleficent gets mad because she’s not invited to a party held in Aurora’s honor. Listening to Francesca and Elodie chatter away, I understood that I had also been left out. I could still play with them, but only if I played certain roles. Only if I understood that they were the princesses and I was not. I was always going to be the outsider. The accepted but not-quite-as-good. The tolerated, as long as I played by someone else’s rules.

  However—Maleficent did have black hair. And red lips.

  Francesca said, “Let’s start when I’m a baby and you come in and curse me.”

  I felt a fierce desire to do this well. Looking at Francesca curled up on the bench and sucking her thumb, I thought, I’m going to win. I’m going to beat you. You are not going to have the power anymore.

  I snatched up a stick, then said to Elodie, “Who dares not let me in?”

  Waving her hands in the air, Elodie cried, “Oh, please don’t hurt my baby.”

  “I shall not hurt your baby—yet,” I sneered. “But on her sixteenth birthday, she shall prick her finger and fall into a sleep that shall last forever!”

  And I pointed the stick at Francesca. “You are doomed.” She started crying loud baby sobs.

  Then she said, “Okay, let’s do the part where I fall asleep
.”

  Francesca loved fainting. Picking up a twig from the ground, she pretended to stab herself in the finger and swooned backward on the bench.

  “Sleep,” I said in a low voice. “Sleep as if you are dead till the prince comes to waken you.”

  Francesca giggled, then started to get up.

  “No,” I said. “Stay down, you’re dead.”

  She looked scornful. “No, I’m not.”

  “You are. I made you dead.” I held the stick out, let it float above her head.

  “Sleeping Beauty comes back alive,” she argued.

  “The prince makes her come back alive.” I looked all around the playground to make my point: no prince.

  “I’ll be the prince,” said Elodie quickly.

  “No!” I snapped. “No changing. You have to stay what you are.”

  To Francesca I said, “You can’t get up till I say.”

  And she lay back. I’m not sure why. Either she was genuinely scared of what I might do with that stick or she realized that that’s how the story goes. The princess can’t rescue herself. As we waited, Francesca uncomfortable on the bench, Elodie standing awkward and bored, I realized that the witch and the prince had the same power over life and death. I could take it away; he could give it back. A princess couldn’t do anything.

  But the princess gets the prince in the end; the witch goes away and dies. That made me feel strange and lonely at first. Then I noticed Francesca squirming because her legs were too long for the bench. Really, she’d never been my friend. Only now, she had to do what I said.

  Ms. Tina called for everyone to come in. Francesca looked at me.

  “You’re still dead,” I told her.

  “But my leg hurts,” she whimpered.

  You made me be the witch, I thought. So this is how it goes.

  CHAPTER ONE

  HERE’S SOMETHING I DON’T TELL most people.

  When I was ten, my dad gave me a small green hippo made of glass with ruby eyes. (That’s what I thought at the time. Now I know they’re just crystals.) She sat in the palm of my hand, happy and peaceful. I stroked her broad, smooth back with the tip of my finger and said, “This is the nicest thing in the whole world.” I named her Mimi, which was what I wished my parents had named me instead of Antonia.

  Every year after that, I got another animal. Now there are six and they live on my windowsill. There’s Mimi in the center because she was the first. Then Phoebe the unicorn and Dallas the rabbit. Boo Boo is an ape and Gloriana a butterfly. At the very end, Aura the serpent. Aura, I decided long ago, has the most power. I like to keep her a little separate from the others because I’m never quite sure what Aura will do.

  The thing I won’t tell people—because it’s childish, lame, and borderline obsessive-compulsive—is that every day before I leave the house, I sit with my animals and arrange them how they need to be. Each of them has a very different personality—basically, different sides of me—and I like to set them up to give me the best shot at a decent day. For example, if I’m feeling a little lonely and out of it, I’ll put shy, awkward Dallas near Gloriana, who’s flirty and gorgeous. Mimi is the core me, and a lot of days, I’ll put her, Boo Boo, and Phoebe together in a tight group, representing humor, strength, and purity. But if it’s going to be one of those “I need you not to mess with me” days, I put Aura in the center. All by herself, because the others are scared of her.

  Today is the first day of school. Today Mimi needs her friends around her.

  I put her in the center, where the sun can shine on her, put Phoebe and Dallas to her right and left. Boo Boo protects her back; Gloriana is in front to distract her from ugliness.

  Aura goes to the corner of the windowsill. I don’t want malevolence anywhere near me today.

  When I’m done, I put on my backpack and take a deep breath. Then another.

  I can’t actually breathe all that well.

  To distract myself, I look around my room. My messy bed with my purple star quilt. My squashy green chair that used to be in my mom’s office. Now Apples, my ancient rag doll, slouches there. On my walls, little promises for the life I want to have someday: a postcard from Venice; a gorgeous black-and-white shot of Dorothy Parker, a sharp-point pen poised at her lips; a shot of people strolling down Fifth Avenue in 1912; Bette Davis, with her sly, knowing look. Someday, I think, I’ll be elegant. Fiercely smart. Strong. But still funny, still nice.

  I stand in front of the mirror, check out my back-to-school outfit. Cute plaid skirt, plaid bow in the brown hair that seems to be cooperating. Black top, on the tight side. One time, I was at Sephora looking at eye shadow, and the salesman said, “Baby, you got big eyes, big mouth, and big tatas. Work what the good Lord gave you.” So I do. At least, I try.

  Clothes are fine. What’s inside the clothes is a mess. But it’ll have to do.

  At the last minute, I take out my phone, hoping, praying, whatevering, there is another message. A different message. One that says, Ha, ha, just kidding!

  But there isn’t. Just the one that came last night. The one that says:

  Get ready for hell.

  Really—what’s the worst that could happen?

  This is what I ask myself while I wait for my friend Ella on the corner of Ninety-Fourth and West End.

  Get ready for hell.

  I try to envision what kind of hell is in store exactly. My mind stretches, tries to feel for the outer reaches of doom. Thick, black, greasy smoke fills my head, seeps down to my stomach until I feel sick.

  I won’t die, I remind myself. She will not actually kill me.

  Probably.

  No, okay—realistically, she is not going to kill me. This I know. Or am relatively sure of. I will still be breathing for the next seventy years or so. If I’m not, it won’t be because of Chloe Nachmias.

  Chloe Nachmias is not going to kill me for real. She doesn’t have to.

  She can just kill me in all the ways that truly matter when you’re starting your junior year of high school.

  To distract myself, I look across the street. Two kids standing at the curb. One is maybe my age. He’s wearing a black T-shirt. The other’s a little younger, like twelve; he’s wearing a red hoodie. The light changes, both of them step off the curb.

  I think, If red hoodie makes it across first, today will not be a bad day.

  Black T-shirt darts ahead, gets to the other side in a flash. I sigh, wishing I didn’t believe in signs. But I do, especially when there’s a big bucket of caca hanging over my head.

  Well, it’s a nice day, I tell myself. My favorite kind of day. Clear blue sky, a little breeze, the air sharp and fresh. But still warm enough that you can go outside in just jeans and a T-shirt. Usually, I love the first day of school. I love seeing everyone again, hearing the craziness that went on over the summer. The long, hot months away from school turn twerpy boys into broad-shouldered guys. Girls get curves, rad haircuts. People try things over the summer they would never, ever dare in school. So there’s a lot to talk about. The five Ws of dirt: who did what where, when, and with whom.

  I can’t lie. This summer got a little crazy for me. I’d like to say I don’t remember some of the things I did. But I do. And so does everyone else. I will definitely be one of the whos discussed.

  I would give a lot of money to have that not be true. To have no story anyone’s dying to hear. No scoop, no dirt.

  No hell.

  “Oh, my God, I am so sorry!” Ella is stumbling and tumbling toward me, her backpack askew on her shoulders. She is round in all ways—pudgy, curls, moon face—and bounces chaotically through life. She’s like a hyper puppy: cute, but you worry someone will kick her.

  I haven’t seen Ella for two months; she’s been at a … well, “fat camp” for lack of a nicer term. The New You Health Center. She wasn’t allowed to have contact with the outside world, in case someone tried to smuggle Snickers bars through the mail. The camp was her parents’ idea; frankly, it sounded kind of cr
uel. Ella’s not that heavy. But food is her drug of choice. And her parents are super-pure stick figures. Eat only fiber. Drink only water. Run a million miles, then do sit-ups till they vomit. Whenever I eat dinner at their house, I get so stressed out with them watching every bite, I want to go directly to Shake Shack afterward. So I get Ella’s problem.

  Nonetheless, I’m all ready to exclaim, “Oh, my God, you look fantastic! I can’t believe how much weight you lost!”

  Only Ella looks exactly the same.

  She raises her fist ironically. “Six pounds, whoo-hoo!”

  “Hey, more than I lost.” Which I guess is true if we’re only talking weight. Looking for something else to compliment, I notice Ella has a new bag. It has an image of The Scream, the Munch painting with the ghostly figure on the bridge holding his face and shrieking.

  “Love that,” I say.

  “Kind of how I feel, right? The camp put me on this insane diet I’m supposed to stay on for my whole entire life.” She reaches into the bag, takes out a bag of mini Chips Ahoy. “These aren’t exactly on the plan, but hey—first day of school.”

  She grins. I grin back. Some kids don’t like Ella because she never stops talking—usually about somebody else. What they did and who they did it with, why, and man, what do you think will happen because oh, my God, this could get really bad. She often communicates with her eyes popped wide open, gasping slightly as if she’s out of breath—it’s that amazing. She lives for what she calls “total drama,” as if other people are one big reality show for her to watch and comment on.

  But I too like to talk about people. So do most of us, right? The difference between Ella and most of us is Ella doesn’t have a mean bone in her body. It would not occur to her to be bitchy; she’s so fricking grateful to people for giving her something to talk about, she goes out of her way to be nice about them. Like when Amber Davies showed up for school stoned and it came out that she’d been raiding her parents’ pot supply for breakfast, Ella joked, “Man, I’d like some herbal happiness with my low-fat yogurt.” Or when Paul Jarrett took up a dare to kiss David Horvath at a party and they kind of sort of ended up making out. Everyone else was all whisper whisper because Paul’s a major jock with a girlfriend, and now, oh, my God, he’s a fag. But Ella just said, “Whoa, good for him. I’d totally swap spit with David, he is H.O.T.”