"I was in a fight, " she said, the second verse of the ritual, the second line of the scene. Tiredly she closed the refrigerator door, put the book down on the counter beside the stove, and peeled off her jacket, examining it for rips and ground-in dirt and blood.
"So how many of them did you take out?" her father said, turning his eyes back to the newspaper. His face still showed exasperation and puzzlement, and Nita sighed. He looks about as tired of this as I am. But really, he knows the answers. "I'm not sure, " Nita said. "There were six of them. " "Six!" Nita's mother came around the corner from the living room and into the bright kitchen — danced in, actually. Just watching her made Nita smile sometimes, and it did now, though changing expressions hurt. She had been a dancer before she married Dad, and the grace with which she moved made her every action around the house seem polished, endlessly rehearsed, lovely to look at. She glided with the laundry, floated while she cooked. "Loading the odds a bit, weren't they?"
"Yeah. " Nita was hurting almost too much to feel like responding to the gentle humor. Her mother caught the pain in her voice and stopped to touch Nita's face as she passed, assessing the damage and conveying how she felt about it in one brief gesture, without saying anything that anyone else but the two of them might hear.
"No sitting up for you tonight, kidlet, " her mother said. "Bed, and ice on that, before you swell up like a balloon. "
"What started it?" her dad asked from the dining room. "Joanne Virella, " Nita said. "She has a new bike, and I didn't get as excited about it as she thought I should. "
Nita's father looked up from the paper again, and this time there was discomfort in his face, and regret. "Nita, " he said, "I couldn't afford it this month, really. I thought I was going to be able to earlier, but I couldn't. I wish I could have. Next time for sure. " Nita nodded. "It's okay, " she said, even though it wasn't really. She'd wanted that bike, wanted it so badly — but Joanne's father owned the big five-and-dime on Nassau Road and could afford three-hundred-dollar bikes for his children at the drop of a birthday. Nita's father's business was a lot smaller and was prone to what he called (in front of most people) "cash-flow problems" or (in front of his family) "being broke most of the time. " But what does Joanne care about cash flow, or any of the rest of it? I wanted that bike! "Here, dreamer, " her mother said, tapping her on the shoulder and breaking her thought. She handed Nita an icepack and turned back toward the stove. "Go lie down or you'll swell worse. I'll bring you something in a while. "
"Shouldn't she stay sitting up?" Nita's father said. "Seems as if the fluid would drain better or something. "
"You didn't get beat up enough when you were younger, Harry, " her mother said. "If she doesn't lie down, she'll blow up like a basketball. Scoot, Nita. "
She scooted, around the corner into the dining room, around the second corner into the living room, and straight into her little sister, bumping loose one of the textbooks she was carrying and scattering half her armload of pink plastic curlers. Nita's father raised his eyebrows and turned his attention back to his paper as Nita bent to help pick things up again. Her sister, bent down beside her, didn't take long to figure out what had happened.
"Virella again, huh?" she said. Dairine was eleven years old, redheaded as her mother, gray- eyed as Nita, and precocious; she was taking tenth-grade English courses and breezing through them, and Nita was teaching her some algebra on the side. Dairine had her father's square-boned build and her mother's grace, and a perpetual, cocky grin. She was a great sister, as far as Nita was concerned, even if she was a little too smart for her own good. "Yeah, " Nita said. "Look out, kid, I've gotta go lie down. " "Don't call me kid. You want me to beat up Virella for you?"
"Be my guest, " Nita said. She went on through the house, back to her room. Bumping the door open, she fumbled for the light switch and flipped it on. The familiar maps and pictures looked down at her — the National Geographic map of the Moon and some enlarged Voyager photos of Jupiter and Saturn and their moons.
Nita eased herself down onto the bottom bunk bed, groaning softly — the deep bruises were beginning to bother her now. Lord, she thought, what did I say? If Dari does beat Joanne up, I'll never hear the end of it. Dairine had once been small and fragile and subject to being beaten up — mostly because she had never learned to curb her mouth either — and Nita's parents had sent her to jujitsu lessons at the same time they sent Nita. On Dari, though, the lessons took. One or two overconfident kids had gone after her, about a month and a half into her lessons, and had been thoroughly and painfully surprised. She was protective enough to take Joanne on and, horrors, throw her clear over the horizon. It would be all over school; Nita Callahan's little sister beat up the girl who beat Nita up. Oh, no! Nita thought.
Her door opened slightly, and Dari stuck her head in. "Of course, " she said, "if you'd rather do it yourself, I'll let her off this time. " "Yeah, " Nita said, "thanks. "
Dairine made a face. "Here, " she said, and pitched Nita's jacket in at her, and then right after it the book. Nita managed to field it while holding the icepack in place with her left hand. "You left it in the kitchen, " Dairine said. "Gonna be a magician, hull? Make yourself vanish when they chase you?"
"Sure. Go curl your hair, runt. "
Nita sat back against the headboard of the bed, staring at the book. Why not? Who knows what kinds of spells you could do? Maybe I could turn Joanne into a turkey. As if she isn't one already. Or maybe there's a spell for getting lost pens back.
Though the book made it sound awfully serious, as if the wizardry were for big things. Maybe it's not right to do spells for little stuff like this — and anyway, you can't do the spells until you've taken the Oath, and once you've taken it, that's supposed to be forever.
Oh, come on, it's a joke! What harm can there be in saying the words if it's a joke? And if it's not, then…
Then I'll be a wizard.
Her father knocked on her door, then walked in with a plate loaded with dinner and a glass of cola. Nita grinned up at him, not too widely, for it hurt. "Thanks, Dad. "
"Here, " he said after Nita took the plate and the glass, and handed her a couple of aspirin. "Your mother says to take these. "
"Thanks. " Nita took them with the Coke, while her father sat down on the edge of the bed.
"Nita, " he said, "is there something going on that I should know about?"
"Huh?"
"It's been once a week now, sometimes twice, for quite a while. Do you want me to speak to Joe Virella and ask him to have a word with Joanne?"
"Uh, no, sir. "
Nita's father stared at his hands for a moment. "What should we do, then? I really can't afford to start you in karate lessons again—" "Jujitsu. "
"Whatever. Nita, what is it? Why does this keep happening? Why don't you hit them back?"
"I used to! Do you think it made a difference? Joanne would just get more kids to help. " Her father stared at her, and Nita flushed hot at the stern look on his face. "I'm sorry, Daddy, I didn't mean to yell at you. But fighting back just gets them madder, it doesn't help. " "It might help keep you from getting mangled every week, if you'd just keep trying!" her father said angrily. "I hate to admit it, but I'd love to see you wipe the ground up with that loudmouth rich kid. "
So would I, Nita thought. That's the problem, She swallowed, feeling guilty over how much she wanted to get back at Joanne somehow. "Dad, Joanne and her bunch just don't like me. I don't do the things they do, or play the games they play, or like the things they like — and I don't want to. So they don't like me. That's all. "