I nodded, turning more fully to watch the town stream by. On first glance, Salem looked a lot like Redhood. It was the same kind of colonial architecture, the same narrow roads that wound up and down and around the same fire-gold maple leaves. Even the view of the glittering water out on the wharf we passed, the dozens of small boats docked there, felt as familiar as the lines of my palms.
I closed my eyes, trying to commit it all to memory for later, wondering how I would ever be able to capture the way the golden morning light flickered against the silvery river water.
But there was one key difference between Salem and Redhood. When you drove through our part of the Cape, it looked like a living history museum. There were rules about the height of trees on the lawns, about what your driveway could be made of, about how many holiday decorations you could put out, and for how long.
But Salem looked lived-in. The kids around me were in sweaters and jeans, flicking through their phones or reading. No designer purses, or stuffy uniforms, or shoes expensive enough to feed a family for months. The homes were dressed in autumn glory, spilling over with the spirit of the season.
Piles of leaves had been gathered to be burned or carted off. Beyond them, though, fake skeletons paraded and danced around lawns, and stuffed witches clutched their wicker broomsticks. Jack-o’-lanterns invaded walls, porches, gates, grinning maniacally as we drove past them.
The center of town seemed to be where most of the tourist stuff was located, including the witch museum and some kind of cemetery—maybe where they had buried some of the accused witches? The rest was all residential, with a few plain, modern strip malls and shopping centers that would have made Grandmother clutch her pearls in dismay.
It felt warm and loved, like a favorite sweater. There was excitement buzzing through the air, lighting the faces of the tourists who were milling around in packs—none of the careful, reserved demeanor of the old families of Redhood. Salem looked like how I always pictured normal.
“Fiends wear hats like that,” Nell said quietly, following my gaze to a house with black pointy hats dangling from the front lawn’s maple tree. “Not witches.”
Before I could answer, I heard someone snicker behind us. “Witches?”
I sat up and craned my neck around, peering over the green vinyl of our seat. Two boys who looked to be about my age were staring at the back of Nell’s head. One brought up a hand, a small wad of wet paper pinched between his fingers. Poised to throw.
Having been on the receiving end of way too many spitballs to count, I threw a hand out just as the boy launched it. It stuck to my palm with a sickening thwack. I looked at it and grimaced. Great. He’d laced gum in it, too.
“What’s your problem?” I demanded, ignoring Nell as she tried to pull my arm down.
“Oooooooh,” the boys crooned back. One wore a shirt that read SALEM TRACK AND FIELD. Blond hair stuck out from under his baseball hat. The other, the one who’d actually thrown the spitball, had darker skin and hair, and was big enough to look like he was a year or two older than us.
Nell yanked me down with a furious look. “I can take care of myself!” she whispered.
“Really? That was taking care of yourself?”
The bus’s brakes shrieked as the driver pulled into the drop-off lane. Nell glanced back over her shoulder once, and just as we were about to come to a complete stop, she tilted her head toward the boys.
They slammed face-first into the back of the seat in front of them.
“They really need to get the brakes on this thing checked,” she said casually to me, standing to collect her backpack.
“Definitely,” I agreed.
The bigger kid had blood spurting from his nose onto his plaid shirt. As he shoved his way up the aisle, shouldering kids aside, Nell said sweetly, “You should probably go see the nurse about that. It looks painful.”
His eyes narrowed to slits as he spun away. His friend, the one in the track shirt, shot Nell a curious look.
“He hates that you ignore him,” the boy told her, sounding at least a little apologetic.
“Whatever, Parker,” she said. “You don’t reward your dogs for their bad behavior, do you?”
Before he could respond, she tugged me up and off our seat. The cold morning wind tugged at us as we stepped off the bus and fell into the herd of kids shuffling toward the brick building.
Thump, thump, thump went my heart.
Twist, twist, twist went my stomach.
Ha! Ha! Ha! went the fiend, sounding like he was basking in my anxiety, rolling through it like a flower field.
I took a step forward, ignoring Nell’s quiet, frantic “Wait!”
Too late.
It felt like I had walked into an electric fence. A white-hot current ripped through me, throwing me back a few steps. When I opened my eyes, I half expected to see my clothes charred.
“Wow, cousin,” Nell said loudly, “you are so clumsy!”
The other students glanced down at me in alarm or ignored me altogether as she helped me back to my feet. The blood drained from my face, leaving it numb.
“The protection spell,” she whispered. “You have a fiend in you. I have to invite you to pass through the boundary.”
She maneuvered so she stood facing me, with her back to the school. I saw the perimeter of magic now, the way it rippled a faint green against the air.
“Come in, come in,” Nell whispered, holding out a hand. “And let our work begin.”
Glancing around to make sure no one had heard or was watching, I took a tentative step forward. This time, I passed through without so much as an errant breeze to greet me. “Do all spells have to rhyme?”
“No, they’re just easier to remember that way,” Nell muttered. “Come on. We’re going to be late.”
But my feet wouldn’t budge, no matter how much I tried to convince myself to take another step forward. The sooner you begin, the sooner it’ll be over. The sooner you begin, the sooner it’ll be over….
Nell glanced at me once, then led me off to the side toward a cement planter, out of everyone else’s way.
“Can’t we just ditch?” I asked finally. “I won’t tell if you won’t!”
Nell did not look impressed by the suggestion.
“Is that how you get out of things you don’t want to do at home? You just skip out on them?” She shook her head. “Come on, cuz. As Shakespeare said, it’s time to screw your courage to the sticking-place.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means,” Nell said, yanking on my arm, “time to suck it up and put your big-boy panties on.”
I glared and reluctantly followed her up the cement steps, my hand trailing along the metal guardrail. It seemed like there were two separate wings of the school, attached by these cool enclosed glass walkways; even now I could see kids walking through them. To my right was an official-looking man, tugging the American and Massachusetts state flags up the pole, barking at the students standing on the patch of grass marked with several signs that read DO NOT TREAD ON THE WINTER GRASS.
“Nell, hey!”