“Are we having tacos?” Mary K. asked.
“Burritos.” Morgan opened the package and dumped the meat into the pan.
“The Hiliminator can’t stand the smell of meat lately,” I said, feeling a thin new layer of irritation settle over me. “Or fried food. Or spicy food. It makes her sick. We’re down to like three acceptable food items at my house: bread, rice, and crackers.”
Morgan nodded as sympathetically as Mary K. had. “You can come over here and eat real food whenever you want.”
“Thanks,” I said. “So you’re going to ask Mark out?” I asked Mary K.
“I guess,” said Mary K.
“He’s cute,” said Morgan. She put a cutting board on the table, elbowing her backpack out of the way. The top hadn’t been fastened tight, and a couple of books and notebooks spilled out. I glanced at them as she pushed the bag aside and set a block of cheddar cheese on the board, along with a grater. “Grate,” she told Mary K.
“I’m doing my homework,” Mary K. pointed out.
“You’re talking about cute guys. Grate.”
The books in Morgan’s backpack caught my eye. One was an advanced calc book; then there were two spiral notebooks with doodles on the covers, and another, green-covered book, like an old-fashioned diary, peeped out from underneath those.
“Oh, did you notice Mom’s crocuses out front?” Morgan asked, rolling up her sleeves. As usual, she looked like Morgan of the Mounties, in a plaid flannel shirt, worn jeans, and clogs. Somehow it looked okay on her. If I wore that, I would look like a truck driver.
Mary K. shook her head, busily grating.“What about ’em?”
“They’re dying, dead,” said Morgan. She pulled her long brown hair out of the way, braided it in back of her head, and snapped an elastic on the end. “They only started blooming last week, ’cause it’s been so cold. The crocuses were up and the hyacinths were starting to to poke out—now they’re all brown lumps.”
“It hasn’t frozen lately, has it?” Mary K. asked.
Morgan shook her head. “Mom’s going to be bummed when she sees it. Maybe they have some kind of disease.” She started slicing a head of lettuce, making long strips suitable for burritoing.
“Hmmm,” said Mary K.
I was listening to all this with only one ear because I just couldn’t stop looking at Morgan’s books. Not books, really. Book. It was freaky, but I was just dying to know what that green book was. I couldn’t think about anything else until I figured it out. I didn’t even know I was reaching for it when I finally realized Mary K. had been saying, “Alisa? Alisa?”
“Oh, what? Sorry,” I said as Morgan turned around from the stove.
“I was saying that if you liked someone, too, then maybe we could all go out, the four of us, and then it wouldn’t be so weird for me and Mark,” she repeated.
“Oh.” The words barely even registered. All I could think was green book, green book, green book. What was wrong with me? I tried to shake it off. “Um, well, I don’t really like anyone. And no one likes me,” I admitted. “I mean, people like me, but no guys specifically like me.”
Mary K. frowned.“Why not? You’re such a cutie.”
I laughed. I knew I wasn’t hideous—my dad is Hispanic, and I have his dark eyes and olive skin. My mom was Anglo, so my hair is a honey-streaked brown. I’m kind of different looking, but I don’t make babies scream. But so far my sophomore year at Widow’s Vale High had been a total bust, guys-wise. “I don’t know.”
“Morgan, do you know any guys, like friends of friends, that maybe we could set something up with?” Mary K. went on, and my mind and eyes wandered again to the stupid green book. What was it? I wanted to know. I needed to know. I shook my head silently, wondering what was going on. Why was I being so weird? It was like this crazy green book was invading my mind. Was this a temporary thing, or was it going to last? Years from now, was I going to be sitting in a padded cell somewhere, babbling, “Green book, green book, green book”? It was probably just some horrible extra-credit calc or something.
“That’s a cool book,” I heard Morgan say, and my head snapped up to see her and Mary K. both looking at me. I jerked back my hand, realizing with embarrassment that I had been reaching for the book again. What was with me? “It’s a Book of Shadows,” Morgan explained, glancing at Mary K., who seemed to take no notice. “I just got it today at Practical Magick.”
I frowned and put both my hands in my lap. Magick. So it was a witch book. Well, that oughta cure me. I’d had enough freaky encounters with witchy things—and witchy people.
“Oh, dang!” Morgan said, turning around with irritation. “I forgot the stupid flavor packet! Well, I’m not going back to the store.”
As she stood, frowning, the refrigerator door swung open. A glass butter dish, complete with butter, crashed to the ground, shattering. We all stared at it.
“Was that propped on something in there?” Mary K. asked.
“It was in the butter thing on the door,” Morgan said, frowning even more.
I jumped up almost without realizing it. Oh, God, not again, I thought as horror filled my veins. Morgan just could not control her powers! She was a walking hazard! I had to get away from her. I hated this kind of stuff. True, this was just a broken butter dish, but I’d seen far worse happen before. Who knew what would happen next? What if she made knives start flying around or something?
“Did you not close the door?” Mary K. persisted. Morgan sighed and tiptoed to the broom closet, taking out a broom and a dustpan. Morgan with a broom, I thought. How appropriate.
“No, I closed it.” Morgan sounded fed up. “I don’t know what happened.”
Uh-huh. And my mom is Queen Elizabeth, I thought.
Morgan scowled down at the broken dish as if she could reconstruct it with her eyes and make it all rush backward and mend itself, like in the movies. Actually, maybe she could. I didn’t know.
“I didn’t—” she began, and then her head lifted. “Hunter,” she said. Wiping her hands on a kitchen towel, she walked out the kitchen door, leaving hamburger sizzling on the stove, a broken butter dish (that she had broken) right there on the floor. A moment later we heard the front door open and shut.
“What about Hunter?” I said.
Mary K. looked a little uncomfortable as she used a paper towel to pick up the glass-encrusted butter and put it in the trash. “Hunter’s here, I guess.”
“Did you hear his car?” I didn’t even know why I was asking. I knew the answer. It was Morgan, Morgan the witch, Morgan and her freaky powers. She’d heard Hunter coming with her superpowerful witchy ears.
Mary K. shrugged and began to sweep up glass. I stood up and turned off the fire under the hamburger, giving the meat a quick stir. Without meaning to, I glanced at the table and was immediately drawn again to the green book. What was it about that book?
3. Morgan
“Young Michael Orris was down to the shore, fetching seaweed for the garden. He looked up and saw a black curtain falling over the land like a sunset. Being a lad of six, he were scared and hid behind a rock. When the sun came out, he ran home to find nothing but broken stones, still smoking. Years later I heard he never made his initiation. Didn’t want to be anything like a witch, not ever.”
— Peg Curran, Tullamore, Ireland, 1937
“You don’t look like a happy camper,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. I’d come out without a jacket as soon as I’d felt Hunter’s presence. The thing with the butter dish had totally thrown me—we’d never figured out why the weird telekinetic stuff happened. I was afraid that it might be a sign from Ciaran, just to let me know he was watching. “I’m glad you’re here—something weird just happened—”