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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Hanging with Mrs. Cooper"  Sunday morning. "Pfeh," Chelsea grumbles from the back seat of the car. "How come Jordan doesn't have to go to church and I do?" "Because he's in college, sweetheart," you tell her. "He's on his own." "You wouldn't know it from all the time he spends passed out in our living room," she mutters. You pretend not to hear, and she says, "Nothing," when you ask her to repeat it. The Coopers aren't the most regular churchgoers in Saratoga Falls. (It would be a fine question: Are they churchgoers who miss a lot of services, or are they non-churchgoers who occasionally drop in to remind themselves of what they're missing?) This morning, though, you roused Chelsea with the news that this Sunday would see her in a pew. There was no missing the hell-cat gleam in her eyes as she glared murder back at you from under a tangle of bed-head. But you just smiled to yourself all the while you were making yourself up. Chelsea was in a surly mood when she got in last night and was fuming when you sent her up to bed thirty minutes later after probing her with a lot of nosy questions about Maggie's party, followed by a stern but sympathetic lecture on the importance of responsibility and modeling good behavior by a leader such as herself. Then to pile church on top of it? Well, you woke up at four in the morning with the idea, and it so excited you that you almost couldn't get back to sleep. You have to wonder: Did my own parents sometimes use church attendance to get back at me? The thought had occurred to you in the past; and now the suspicion feels less like paranoia and more like insight into a parent's psychological character. But you've another reason to go to church. When services are over, you make a point of dragging Chelsea along as you go searching for Betty Vredenburg in the reception area. Chelsea and Cindy glower at each other while you catch up with Cindy's mom, and when Cindy makes like she's going to drift off, you lay hold of her and drag from her an impromptu report on how the cheerleader squad is doing. "Chelsea never tells me anything about it these days!" you complain. You draw the pain out as long as possible as Cindy, with eyes darting at Chelsea, lays on some very vanilla praise, and as Chelsea, boiling quietly in the background, listens. But all that is in the nature of a dividend. The real payoff comes when you ask Betty where Lucy is, and how she's doing, and how to get in touch with her. It's with a feeling of triumph that you carry off Lucy's number in your phone's contact list when you part with the Vredenburgs. "I'm so glad to hear that you and Cindy are getting along so nice," you exult to Chelsea on the ride back home. You glance into the back seat to confirm that Chelsea, with folded arms, is glaring hard out the window. "I was so worried that the two of you would have a falling out once you got to be seniors. You were such great friends your sophomore year, I remember. Like, besties!" No reply. "And I have to tell you, I was worried that Cindy wouldn't be so supportive on the squad. I mean, you know, with her sister being team captain when she was a senior, it would be so easy for Cindy to be jealous. Honey, have you thought about asking her to be co-captain with you?" "No." The word floats on the wave of Arctic air that comes rolling out of the back seat. "Well, you should give it some thought. It would be a really nice gesture on your part. Of course, I'm sure you listen to all her suggestions. You do, don't you?" you press when she doesn't answer. "Yes." "Because you know you can't do it all on your own. That's another reason you should probably make her co-captain. You have so many responsibilities this year! By the way, did you look at that link to the UC-SD website that I sent you?" "Uh huh." "Do you have any thoughts?" "No." You prattle on about San Diego, and California, and the climate and how nice of a place to go to school it would be. Chelsea only continues to stare out the window. Not until you're home, parked in the garage, and Chelsea has rushed ahead to get inside and get away from you, do you drop the biggest bombshell of all. "By the way," you call after her as she grabs the handle of the door leading into the house, "I want you to keep your after school plans flexible this week. I'm going to call Cindy's sister—you remember Lucy—and invite her out sometime this week. I want you there," you add as Chelsea freezes. "You really should get to know her, sweetcakes, she'd be such a valuable resource to you. You know, she's on the college cheerleading squad, and I bet she's just gotten so much more experience now, and I'm sure she'd love to help you out with ideas and insights." Chelsea practically wrenches the handle off the door as she rushes inside. Her feet thunder on the stairs, and a bedroom door slams upstairs. You smile to yourself, and wonder if Chelsea made it to the toilet before vomiting. * * * * * You got Lucy's number, of course, because you haven't forgotten your interest in her: What is her connection to Blackwell? You send her a long, chatty text, reminding her of who you are and asking her text or call you back at her convenience. But she was a prissy little bitch (Mrs. Cooper's memories tell you) even when she was in high school, so you're not real hopeful that she'll get back to you any time soon. "And where do you think you're going?" you demand of Chelsea when, twenty minutes later, she appears in kitchen with her purse over her shoulder. She's changed into shorts, a midriff-baring top, and flip-flops. With her sunglasses and her hair tied back, she looks like she's on her way to the beach. "I'm meeting Gordon for lunch," she says. "We're—" "You're having Sunday lunch here, with your family," you inform her. "What?" "Don't get sassy with me, little miss. I'm fixing a fried chicken." Chelsea's jaw drops. "I can't have fried chicken!" she exclaims in a strangled voice. "Nobody says you have to eat it. Or you can pick the crust off." "Then what's the—?" "It's for your father, and it's also why you're staying to eat with us. He hardly gets to see any more of you, honey! Between his job and your extracurriculars—" "Mom!" "—the only time he gets a chance to see his beautiful baby girl is on the weekends, and we don't even ask to see you on Saturdays! Is one hour, sitting across the table from him, on a Sunday afternoon, too much for you?" Jordan chooses that moment to come padding in: shoeless and shirtless in track pants, with his hair sticking out in every direction. "What's for lunch?" he asks as he pulls open the refrigerator door and studies the contents with a furrowed brow. "Take twenty dollars from my purse and get Jack to come pick you up," you tell him. You have to fight to keep your lips from twitching as Chelsea's eyes bulge. "Hop to, honeypot." Jordan blinks, then with a shrug pads back out. Chelsea whirls on you. "So how come—?" "Keep your voice down," you warn her, "and watch your tone with me." "So how come Jordan—?" she hisses. "Because your father's seen all together too much of him recently. I want a pleasant, Sunday lunch, like the kind your grandma and I used to have with my grandmammy and 'pappy. And that means having it with you and without Jordan. Sweetheart." You stroke her cheek. "You should be pleased and flattered that your parents want to see more of you. Because if you play your college applications right, well—" You sniff and pat the tip of your nose with the back of your hand. "Your dad and I only get to have nine more months with you!" Chelsea turns so pale that you can see the gray underneath her tan. With a lip curved with something like horror, she stumbles out of the kitchen, nearly bumping into Rob as she goes. Your husband glances back at her. "What's wrong with Chelsea?" he asks. "Did Gordon cancel on her or something?" "No, she's just hungry and I told it would be forty minutes before we eat. Fried chicken." A furtive gleam of cupidity creeps into Rob's eye. Then he frowns. "So is she eating with us? I thought she and Gordon—" "Of course she's eating with us. She can get together with Gordon later. Although I wish she wouldn't." You are very careful to not keep your voice down. "I don't like that boy," you grumble as you open the pantry to dig out the oil and flour for the chicken. "He reminds me altogether too much of Mark Grossman. You remember him, of course." Mark Grossman was a football player that Rob knew in college, who wound up in jail for spousal abuse. "First time you've mentioned this to me," Rob mutters as you bustle about, getting out the rest of the stuff for the chicken. Unlike you, he does keep his voice down. "Well, I've been biting my tongue. We need to get more involved in Chelsea's life," you tell him. "We let things slide last year." "You're not going to try telling Chelsea who she can date!" Rob says, sounding shocked. "Well, why not? At the very least—" At the very least we can stop letting Gordon spend so much time upstairs in her bedroom with her. That was what you were going to say. But now you've got a much more wicked idea. Chelsea's grades aren't bad, but they're not so great you couldn't justify getting her a tutor. And you can think of one tutor who'd be perfect: Will Prescott, whose presence she is so allergic to. Next: "Instructing the Tutor" |
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