“Well, anyway,” I say. “If you feel better, do you still want to go into town tonight?”
“Yeah. Jones has that band practice to prep for their July Fourth set.”
“Right. And I was thinking I could do your makeup.”
“Oh, really?” At this, she sits up.
“Mm-hmm. I have some navy mascara that doesn’t quite work on me but I think will be perfect with your coloring.”
She sighs dreamily. “Excellent. I just need my body to stop gushing adrenaline into my bloodstream before then. Pray for me.”
Her tone is flippant—joking. But I would pray for her. I will. I may not exactly be on speaking terms with God about my own life, but I still send up prayers for my parents and friends sometimes. I can’t help it; it’s like releasing the worries that clutter up my heart. Their names, my holy words, sent heavenward. Which reminds me.
“Anna?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s your last name? It’s not . . . Anna, right?”
“No!” She almost laughs, which feels like a victory. “No one uses it because it’s hard to say. ‘Meero-suave.’ Spelled M-i-r-o-s-l-a-w, though, so everyone says ‘Myro-slaw,’ like ‘coleslaw.’?”
“Meero-suave,” I try to repeat, attempting to roll the “r” the way she did.
“Polish. It’s a first name usually—not sure how it became our last. We’ve traced it back to Ellis Island, but not much before. It means ‘peace.’?”
I frown, imagining Anna’s ancestors at Ellis Island. I see them in black and white—why do I always do that? The pictures didn’t have color, but the people did. They were real, flesh and blood. “You should make people say it. To refuse to learn someone’s name just because it’s hard to say . . . I mean, it’s so narcissistic.”
She grins. “Well, the truth is . . . I just like people calling me Anna. Having a hard-to-pronounce last name is an excuse.”
“Okay, so what are we watching?” I turn my chair so we’re facing the same direction: toward the laptop. “Toil and Trouble? Oh my gosh, I love this show. Are you getting Wi-Fi?”
“Here? Yeah, right. I have them on DVD.”
“Oh my gosh, me too! I’m kind of obsessed. My ex thought it was so stupid.” It startles me, that I said “ex” like that. I don’t know when I started thinking of Lukas as that. Maybe just now.
“The Pauser hated T and T???? Yeah, he had to go.”
Anna watches the screen for a few moments as the girls conjure a spell in their dormitories. They circle around a bowl, which is wide-mouthed and tarnished gold. Black stone cauldrons are too basic for the ladies of the Bishop School for Talented Young Women.
When the camera has panned to each girl, Anna says, “I’m a total Carolyn.”
Carolyn, who is enduringly kind but harbors the pain of accidentally killing someone before she could control her magic. She feels at home with the other witches, but she’s often shown on-screen by herself too. An introvert who loves people.
“I can see that. I think I’m an Asher, actually.” He’s a little too serious for his own good, loosened up by his friendship with adventurous Iris.
“Oh my God,” Anna says. “You are.”
“Right?”
We lie there, watching for a few minutes, until Anna whispers, “Wouldn’t you just kill for Zuri’s wardrobe.”
“Oh my gosh,” I reply. “I’d totally be her for Halloween just to wear something that cool.”
It’d be a perfect group costume, all the girls and their specific styles. Maybe at college, I’ll get lucky and find fellow fans.
“Hey, Anna?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I ask you something weird?” When she nods, I ask, cringing at myself, “Do you have good friends at home? Like, a group?”
She stares down at the screen for a moment, considering. “I’m friendly with a lot of people. But . . . not super close. Not like camp.”
“Me neither,” I admit, relieved.
“Well,” she says, knocking her shoulder into mine. “Good thing we have camp, then. Hey, how’s your moms doing?”
“She’s . . . okay. Thanks for asking.”
“Will you tell me about her? It’ll help get my mind away from . . .” She pauses to take a controlled breath inward. “This.”
As our favorite witches and warlocks get into trouble on-screen, I tell Anna about my mom, about the swim team, about my house. Eventually, she nods off, lips parted like a little kid’s. Good. But I feel strange leaving without saying good-bye. I don’t like the idea of her waking up alone.
As I’m scratching a quick note on scrap paper from her desk, Mohan walks in. He doesn’t look surprised to see me, but then, Keely probably told him I was here. His T-shirt today reads: I DONUT CARE.
I wave, not wanting to wake Anna with any noise. He points to her sleeping form and gives me a thumbs-up, impressed. Then he puts his hands into a prayer pose, mouthing: Thank you.
I want to say, “All I did was chatter to her,” but I don’t want to disturb the silence. So I just nod.
Without a word, he lies down on the bed in the opposite direction. They look like the grandparents from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.
They look like they’ve done this a hundred times.
He clasps his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling like it’s made of shifting clouds. Perfectly content.
She won’t wake up alone, but I leave the note on her desk anyway. It’s the witch school motto, Latin etched into marble on the floors. A phrase the girls use in the dark moments, to bolster each other to bravery.
Confidimus stellarum, I write. From one boss witch to another.
Though I’ve been here for a month, Friday night is my first time in town. I’ve been before with my parents, for groceries or an ice cream cone. But I’ve never been to this street, where we’re approaching a freestanding, white-sided building called Tom’s. The sign provides no further information about what kind of establishment actually belongs to Tom. A diner? A bar? Sort of both, it turns out, and also a makeshift dance hall.
We enter to a big brass version of the Jackson Five’s “ABC.” The band takes up most of the back wall, men rocking with trombones and saxes, plus a middle-aged woman on drums. Henry stands in the center of the trumpets, easily recognizable in his Detroit Tigers snapback hat.
The bar smells deep-fried, with a tangy undertone that I think might be beer. It’s everywhere—amber liquid in pint glasses, next to chicken tenders and baskets of thick fries. The tension in my shoulders eases as I remind myself: the Cheesecake Factory has alcohol, and I go there with my parents sometimes. I’m not at a bar bar.
While I’ve been busy looking around, Anna, Mohan, and Keely have settled into the last available booth. I slide in next to Anna and examine the plastic menu page.
“Boom! Pay the piper!” Keely slaps a slip of paper onto the table. It’s an IOU. “You thought I’d forget. But I never forget. Full basket of onion rings, not that bullshit junior size.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Mohan mutters. With a look of genuine warning, he tells me, “Don’t ever lose to her.”