Witches on Parole: Unlocked

Chapter 15
Elsie’s eyes slid open, faint traces of cowboy dancers and silk-soft baby cheeks drifting away as the morning light pulled her into wakefulness. She stretched lazily and realized she was still wearing yesterday’s clothes, complete with tomato stains. And something vaguely green.

Memories, pushed out of the way by the awe of a baby’s arrival, came flooding back. Somehow, in the day-long wait at the hospital and Knit a Spell, and her first lesson in cable stitch for Bean’s blanket, Elsie had forgotten about her spaghetti breakfast.

Dozens of people, come to eat food made by her own hands. Laughing in her kitchen. And writing ideas for her small project of self-development. Sitting up straighter now, she reached across to the antique dresser and picked up the aptly labeled Elsie’s Silly Jar. It was stuffed to the brim.

She held a hand over the top of the jar for a moment, feeling like she’d stepped into an oddly momentous occasion. And then felt her WitchLight pendant vibrating gently.

It had never done that before. Maybe it liked silliness.

She reached into the jar and pulled out the first slip of paper her fingers settled on. The writing was pink and glittery and covered in smiley faces. Buy a frilly pink princess gown and wear it roller skating.

Elsie smiled, even as she winced. That sounded like a recipe for a trip to the emergency room—but a pretty dress was oddly tempting. Her wardrobe was entirely bereft of anything pink or frilly.

She reached for the next offering in the jar, hoping for something a little less precarious than roller skating. Have a sword fight with homemade swords. Elsie giggled—that one could likely be accomplished without medical incident, and she knew a witchling who probably had sword-making talents.

The next one was a bit mystifying. Borrow Caro’s bike and go for a ride. Why was that silly? She tried to imagine what the practical Caro could possibly have done to her bike and shrugged, coming up empty. Perhaps it was painted orange. She could handle a ride on an orange bike. Perhaps that was a good project for the morning.

Wear socks that don’t match. Elsie told her inner fashion critic to be quiet. Feeling silly was the whole point of this exercise. The bigger problem was that all her socks were the same practical gray.

Create some graffiti art. She snorted—that one would get her arrested.

The next slip of paper was signed. Take video of all the other silly ideas in this jar. Invite us all over to watch—with popcorn. Jamie. Nat’s husband had a warped sense of humor.

Looking at the strewn pieces of paper on her bed, Elsie decided she needed some kind of organizational system. A pile for ideas she could implement reasonably quickly and with minimal danger to herself or others. A pile for things that might require some assistance or instruction. And a pile for ideas too outlandish to be considered. A quick glance at a few more of the slips in her jar suggested the third pile was going to be rather large.

Learn to belly dance. She was learning to sing. That was surely enough embarrassment for one lifetime. Into the “outlandish” pile.

Toast marshmallows inside a fort of couch cushions. Fire hazard, but it might work with some modifications. Into the “needs assistance” stack.

Feeling like she had a good system now, Elsie went to work.

~ ~ ~

It wasn’t often you woke up with Count Dracula’s laugh ringing in your ears. Lizard blinked, wondering what the stupid jerkwads were up to now—and then remembered she didn’t live with jerkwads anymore.

She lived with a stick-butt psychologist. Well, that probably wasn’t entirely fair—the stick had loosened up quite a bit in the last couple of weeks.

Then the laugh came again, and this time Lizard sent out a mindtrace to verify. She considered putting a pillow over her head and going back to sleep—whatever had Elsie laughing like a Sesame Street character at 7 a.m. couldn’t possibly be good. It was, however, impossible to ignore.

The whole watching-babies-be-born deal was exhausting—she needed about three more days of sleep to feel normal. Which was going to happen exactly never, especially with Count Dracula in residence in the bedroom next door. Lizard rolled out of bed and stumbled down the hall, pushing hair out of her eyes—and found Elsie sitting on her bed, surrounded by little slips of paper. Her cackles had moved on from the Count to something that sounded more like it belonged in Macbeth.

“Morning,” said Lizard, walking into the room. “Practicing your witch laugh?”

Elsie startled, sending bits of paper flying everywhere. “Oh, you scared me!” She squinted at Lizard more carefully. “I’m so sorry—did I wake you up?”

Lizard saw the jar and flashed back to the events of the previous morning. “Are those all the silly ideas? Any good ones?”

Elsie was busily collecting and re-piling papers. “Some excellent ones, I think. And some impossible ones, but that’s to be expected.”

It was the latter that interested Lizard. “Which pile is the crazy ones?” She tried not to laugh when Elsie pointed. It was twice as big as any of the other piles. Lizard picked up a few notes and started reading. Belch the ABC’s—or Shakespeare. Challenge the witchlings to a tricycle race. Create some graffiti art. Speak in rhyme for a day. “These aren’t impossible.” The belching sounded like a blast.

“Sure they are.” Elsie frowned, looking over Lizard’s shoulder. “I can’t belch or rhyme, I couldn’t possibly fit on a tricycle, and graffiti is illegal.”

“Everyone can belch, graffiti’s only illegal if you get caught, and the whole reason the tricycle race would be funny is because you don’t fit.”

Elsie just looked totally blank. Lizard tried a different approach. “What’s the doable pile? Never mind.” She looked for the smallest one. Lick the batter bowl with your fingers. Have a scary laugh contest. Ah, that explained Count Dracula. Blow bubbles in your milk. Play hopscotch.

Okay, they could start with baby steps. “Come on, let’s go have breakfast. We’ll blow bubbles in our orange juice.”

“Just let me finish organizing these last ones,” said Elsie, upending the jar.

Lizard grabbed her hand. “You don’t organize silliness—you just do it.” She used a foot to shove her frozen roommate off the bed. “Move. You can have the bathroom first.”

As Elsie headed down the hall, Lizard picked up the middle pile. Dance around to the next three songs on the radio. Build a pillow fort and tell ghost stories. Pillow forts scared Elsie? They had some work to do. Eat brownies for breakfast, and breakfast for dinner. Walk down the street singing at the top of your lungs. Okay, that one was surprisingly brave—maybe there was hope. Tell a pirate joke. Let a puppy lick your nose. Decorate yourself in glitter.

Well, she could make brownies for breakfast, but no way Elsie made it through these lists on her own. And today was twenty-five-hours-of-class day.

Lauren said good realtors knew how to delegate. Picking up her phone, Lizard texted Jamie. Elsie needs belching lessons. And glitter help. He was a guy—they all knew how to belch. And he was in tight with the queens of glitter.

Her good deed for the day was done.

~ ~ ~

––––––––––––––

To: [email protected]

From: Vero Liantro <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: Bean has arrived!

––––––––––––––

Lovely Jennie,

All our blessings to the new mother. Thea is a wonder—I’ve much enjoyed her company the times I’ve met her. She’s a gift to that little boy of hers, and a gift to the friends she makes with such ease.

You’ll be sending us one of the pictures hanging in your darkroom, if you please. Melvin insists. There is indeed such magic in the eyes of a babe newly arrived. Then we spend decades trying to once again attain that level of grace and wisdom, I think.

Some of us need a few more decades than others.

Melvin tells me that I underestimate what it required for Lizard to hold her friend’s hand yesterday. To watch a birth, real or metaphorical, requires no small bravery. I won’t question his judgment—my path in life has always been to be the one whose hand is being held.

I much look forward to my next lesson with Elsie. I didn’t expect her to embrace the quest for silliness quite so completely. I know not everyone is convinced it is a necessary part of her journey—and I wasn’t sure myself, until I heard her sing. She still lacks that inner light that comes from knowing your own silliness and forging ahead anyway. And only with that light can a singer truly venture into the dark or tumultuous corners, trusting that she can find her way out again.

They both have interesting days ahead, as do you.

All our love,

Vero

~ ~ ~

Elsie walked out the front door—and saw a bike leaning against the front fence. An eye-popping bike.

It was bright orange, with painted flames dancing all over the bars. Which might have looked fast and sleek if the bike wasn’t one of those granny models with the upright handle bars, big padded seat, and grocery basket hanging off the front. The basket was covered in woven yellow ribbon, the handlebar ends were festooned with red pom-poms, and a gigantic purple frog sat right up front.

Elsie was pretty sure the frog was giving her the evil eye.

“His name is Alfred,” said Caro, chuckling, as she stepped up to the fence line. “He started life as a respectable bike horn, but now he mostly belches, which seems somewhat appropriate.”

Elsie just gaped. She was afraid to ask if the bike had a name, too.

“Nope.” Caro smiled. “I’m not eavesdropping, girl. Your mind is yelling pretty loudly this morning. I named the frog. The bike’s just a bike.”

It was the most un-bike-like bike Elsie had ever seen. And the loud noise in her brain was the raging fight between her sense of decorum—and fingers that itched to touch the handlebars. Just touch.

“Anyhow.” Caro pushed back from the fence. “I heard via the grapevine that someone thought you might like to go for a ride. I’ll leave Alfred in your care. Just put the bike in the back yard when you’re finished.”

And Elsie found herself alone in her small front yard, staring at a purple rubber frog with something akin to fear.

It was one thing to be accidentally silly or to get dragged into messy play by a four-year-old on a mission. It was an entirely different matter to volunteer. Swinging her leg over that bike was an entirely intentional act, one that could hardly be blamed on impulse or influence or anything else.

God—had she always been such a wimp?

Elsie dropped her bag in the yellow basket, reached for the bright red helmet sitting on the fencepost, and grabbed the handlebars. “Come on, Alfred. You and I are going for a ride.”

In two blocks, she was feeling as silly as she’d ever felt in her whole life, pretty sure everyone in Berkeley was watching her ride by. They kept waving. Politeness required that she wave back, but she hadn’t yet mastered the technique of safely letting go of the handle bars with one hand. Even Alfred had winced the one time she’d tried.

By the time her wheels hit block number three, she’d gotten a little braver. Hair and pom-poms streaming, she sailed down a small hill—and then walked the bike back up to the top to do it again. And again. Alfred liked speed.

By block number six, she finally mastered the coordination required to give Alfred’s nose a squeeze—and giggled hysterically at his drunken belch. “You are one sad excuse for a bike horn,” she said, and mashed his nose again.

Somewhere around block number twenty-five, she found a group of young boys riding their bikes down a big hill. No hands. And screamed, heart in her delighted throat, as she joined them.

By the time she rolled the bike into Caro’s back yard, her bottom entirely numb and arms shaking in exhaustion, Elsie had fallen completely and totally in love. She gave Alfred’s nose one last squeak and backed away, one slow step at a time.

And realized it was far harder to walk away than it had been to get on.

~ ~ ~

Lizard walked into room B243 and stopped dead. It wasn’t a lecture hall—just a small room with a table and chairs, and about six people, all looking at her curiously. “Sorry. I was looking for the advanced poetry seminar.”

“You’ve found it,” said a voice behind her shoulder. Professor Allard walked past her and took a seat at the top of the table. “Come have a seat. Guys, this is Lizard, a student from one of my other classes. She’s got some interesting ideas about poetry, so I invited her to join us.”

Lizard sat, feeling horribly conspicuous. A student with dark glasses and pasty skin looked her up and down. “What do you write?”

Write? “I don’t write anything.” Probably one of those literary snob types.

The guy in glasses grinned. “We all write something. Most of us aren’t brave enough to talk about it, either.”

Okay, maybe not a total snob. But she didn’t write stuff. Words on Freddie’s bus didn’t count. “Well, I don’t.”

Professor Allard handed a folder down the table. “Course materials. Don’t worry about catching up—just jump in with this week’s reading.”

Glasses Guy handed over a piece of paper. “Here’s a copy of the poem we’re talking about today. I usually bring lots of copies.”

The dark-eyed girl beside him laughed. “And color-coded pencils, three dictionaries, and five related books of poetry.”

“I like to be prepared.” He grinned, not at all bothered by the light teasing.

They sounded like bickering siblings, but brother and sister wasn’t what Lizard was picking up from either of their minds. Apparently college lovers bickered too.

“Think we can actually get to the poem now, guys?” asked Professor Allard dryly. “Jeremy, you want to give it a run-through for us?”

“Sure.” Glasses Guy picked up the page and started to read. One line in, he had the class hanging off every word. Halfway through, Lizard was well aware she wasn’t the only one fighting tears. Jeremy’s voice was magic—and he knew what every single word in the poem meant. She’d never heard that kind of word magic happen anywhere except in her own head. It sucked her in, moth to burning flame.

“Can you always do that?” Lizard froze, suddenly aware she’d spoken out loud.

Jeremy grinned. “Yup. Can’t write a decent poem to save my life, though.” He wiggled an eyebrow at her. “Got something I can read?”

For the briefest moment, she was tempted to hear her words spoken with that kind of passion, that kind of utter comprehension—and then sanity kicked back in. Not in this lifetime.

Professor Allard rode to her rescue. “Okay, let’s go round the table and get first reactions to what you heard. Lori, you want to kick us off?”

Jeremy’s girlfriend picked up her paper. “It’s such a sad poem. This line here, ‘dark fire, rising from the fleeting embers of my soul’s breath,’ is just so much bleakness.”

Like hell it was. Lizard leaned forward, words spilling off her tongue. “No way. Fire brings light into the darkness. That’s totally where all the hope is coming from. The dude who wrote it isn’t getting sad—he’s digging out. And not slowly. Fire is fast and fierce, and burns away all the crap.”

Then she realized she was talking out loud. Again. In a class full of brainiac third-year English lit majors. Crap, crap, crap.

“Maybe,” said a skeptical voice from down the table. “But if the fire’s dark, maybe the writer means all those things about fire, but bringing the darkness, not the light.”

Lizard fought to keep her stupid mouth shut—and lost. “Sometimes words don’t work like that—you can’t take them so literally. Listen to how they sound, how they taste when you say them.” She recited the line from memory. “The whole rhythm of the line, it’s accelerating, coming faster. He’s climbing out.”

Seeing skepticism, she dug for more proof. “It’s like in that other poem he wrote.” Again, she pulled lines from memory. “That’s what he sounds like when he’s headed down, all big words and slow, painful beats.” Way too many dead-poet dudes were totally bipolar. “This is him climbing out. It sounds totally different.”

Complete silence. Lizard prayed belatedly for a hole to come swallow her up—and then stared as Lori grinned and elbowed Jeremy. “Ha. You’ve finally got some competition.”

He winked at Lizard. “Nope. I’m pretty sure she can write.”

~ ~ ~

She had to hurry. Lauren wasn’t sure exactly why, but her pendant had been buzzing for almost thirty minutes. The darn thing would be far more useful if it gave her less vague directions.

She slid to a halt outside the room that was supposed to contain Lizard’s new class and took a deep breath. Time to use more reliable witch talents. Gently, she sent out a scan, seeking her intern’s familiar mental signature.

It took no time at all to find Lizard. A happy, dancing, confident Lizard, with lines of poetry running mad, naked streaks through her mind. What the heck? The poetry wasn’t really a surprise, although it was closer to the top of Lizard’s mind than Lauren had ever seen. But the pendant had been giving off clear “urgent” vibes.

And while she was still pretty skeptical of a lot of the more hocus-pocus witch tools, it was hard to brush off a necklace sitting on your chest yelling the rock equivalent of “Move, move, move!” Nothing in that room screamed “emergency.”

Well, if she was here, maybe she could feed Lizard, at least.

Lauren leaned back against the wall to wait, watching the college kids wandering by, and felt vaguely old.

Ha. Try actually being old, said Jennie, walking down the hallway. I take it your pendant paged you as well?

Yeah. I don’t get it—Lizard’s fine. Better than fine, actually. I have no idea what’s going on in there, but she’s having a blast.

Jennie frowned, and Lauren felt her send out a light mindscan. Jennie’s eyebrows flew up. “I’ve never seen her poetry that close to the surface. Usually all I catch is stray words.”

“Sure.” Lauren lifted her pendant away from her neck, annoyance growing. “But why is this suddenly an emergency?”

Jennie’s forehead wrinkled—and then she let out her breath in a huff. “Because Melvin’s a very smart man.” She leaned back against the wall beside Lauren. “I remember the day I finally took my first decent picture. It wasn’t the one he wanted yet, but it was good, and I knew it. My mind probably felt quite a bit like Lizard’s in there.”

Lauren tried to imagine truly feeling a world-class talent for the first time. “Sounds like it would be quite the buzz.” She could read Jennie’s concern now too, and it still didn’t compute. “And that’s bad because…?”

Jennie sighed. “I wasn’t remotely ready to feel talented. Talent demands that you respect and honor it, and I was still kicking myself around the block seventeen different ways. Talent without the self-confidence to handle it can be terrifying.”

Lauren was catching up fast. She eyed the door to Lizard’s classroom. “Especially when that talent finally shows up in public.” No, that wasn’t quite right—poetry was close to Lizard’s surface, but not outside it yet. “Or at least sees the opportunity.”

Jennie nodded slowly. “There’s invitation in that room. Interest, respect, shared passion.”

Damn. Lauren closed her eyes, well able to picture what was coming next. “What do we do?”

“What you do best.” Jennie squeezed Lauren’s hand. “I think I was only meant to come steer you in the right direction.”

Crap. What? “You’re leaving?” Lauren didn’t need her pendant vibrating any longer—she was plenty worked up without it.

“We both are.” Jennie smiled. “This was just a scouting mission. She’ll come to you soon enough. Send her to me later, when she’s ready to talk about the fierce demands of talent. She’ll need you first, though, doing what you do best.”

Lauren was totally clueless. And what’s that?

Jennie hooked Lauren’s elbow and dragged her down the hall. You treat her like an adult—one who can make smart choices. I want to protect her too much. You’ll demand that she look this in the eye. It’s one of your greatest gifts.

Lauren was far too smart a negotiator to fall for that kind of flattery, even if Jennie meant every word.