Book of Shadows

CHAPTER 5 Headachy

I saw something last night—a flash of power from an unexpected source. I can't jump to conclusions—I've been looking and waiting and watching for too long to make a mistake. But in my gut I feel she's here. She's here, and she has power. I need to get close to her.

On Sunday morning I woke up feeling like head was packed with wet sand. Mary K. stuck her head in my door.

"Better get up. Church."

My mom brushed past her into my room. "Get up, get up, you lazy pup," she said. She threw open my curtains, flooding my room with bright autumn sunlight that pierced my eye-balls and stung the back of my head.

"Ugh," I moaned, covering my face.

"Come on, we'll be late," said my mom. "Do you want waffles?"

I thought for a minute. "Sure."

"I'll put them in the toaster for you."

I sat up in bed, wondering if this was what a hangover felt like. It all came back to me, everything that had happened last night, and I felt a rush of excitement. Wicca. It had been strange and amazing. True, today I felt physically awful, foggy headed and sore, but still, last night had been one of the most exciting times of my whole life. And Cal. He was…incredible. Unusual.

I thought back to the moment when he looked at me so intensely. I thought at the time he'd been talking to me alone, but I later realized he wasn't. Robbie has heard him banish loneliness, and Bree had, too. On the way home Bree had wondered aloud how a guy like Cal could possibly be lonely.

I swung my feet over to the chilly floor. It was really autumn, finally. My favorite time of year. The air is crisp; the leaves change color; the heat and exhaustion of summer are over. It's cozier.

When I stood up I swayed a bit, then clawed my way to the shower. I stepped under the wimpy, water-saving shower-head and turned it to hot. As the water streamed down on my head, I closed my eyes and leaned against the shower wall, shivering with headachy delight. Then something shifted almost imperceptibly, and suddenly I could her each and every drop of water, feel each sliding rivulet on my skin, each tiny hair on my arms being weighted down by wetness. I opened my eyes and breathed in the steamy air, feeling my headache drain away. I stayed there, seeing the universe in my shower, until I heard Mary K. banging on the door.

"I'll be out in a minute!" I said impatiently.

Fifteen minutes later I slid into the backseat of my dad's Volvo, my wet hair sleeked into a long braid and making a damp patch on the back of my dress. I struggled into my jacket.

"What time did you go to bed, Morgan? Didn't you get enough sleep last night?" my mom asked brightly. Every one in my family except me is obnoxiously cheerful in the morning.

"I never get enough sleep." I moaned.

"Isn't in a beautiful morning?" my dad said. "When I got up, it was barely light. I drank my coffee on the back porch and watched the sun come up.

I popped the top off a Diet Coke and took a life-giving sip. My mom turned around and made a face. "Honey, you should drink some orange juice in the morning."

My dad chuckled. "That's our owl."

I'm a night owl, and they're larks. I drank my soda, trying to swig it all down before we got to church. I thought about how lucky my parents are to have Mary k. because otherwise it would seem as if both of their children were total aliens. And then I thought how lucky they are to have me so that they'll really appreciate Mary k. And then I thought how lucky I am to have them because I know they love me even though I am so different from the three of them.

Our church in beautiful and almost 250 years old. It was one of the first Catholic churched in this area. The organist, Mrs. Lavender, was already playing when we walked in, and the smells of incense were as familiar and comforting to me as the smell of our laundry detergent.

As I passed though the huge wooden doors, the numbers 117, 45, and 89 entered my mind, as if someone had drawn them on the inside of my forehead. How weird, I thought. We sat down in our usual pew, with my mom between Mary K. and me so we wouldn't cut up, even though we're so old old now that we wouldn't cut up, anyways. We know about everyone who goes to our church, and I liked seeing them every week, seeing them change, feeling like part of something bigger than just my family.

Mrs. Lavender began to play the first hymn, and we stood as the processional trailed in, the alter boys and the choir, Father Hotchkiss and Deacon Benes, Joey Markovich carrying the heavy gold cross.

Mom opened her hymnal and began flipping pages. I glanced at the hymn board at the front of the church to see what number we should be on. The first hymn was number 117. I glanced at the next number—45. Followed by 89. The same three numbers that had popped into my brain as I first entered the church. I turned to the correct page and began singing, wondering how I had known those numbers.

That Sunday, Father Hotchkiss gave a sermon in which he equated one's spiritual struggle with a football game. Father Hotchkiss is very big on football.

After church we stepped out in the bright sunlight again, and I blinked,

"Lunch at the Widow's Diner?" said Dad, as usual, and we all agreed, as usually. It was just another Sunday, except that for some reason I had known the numbers of the three hymns we would sing before I had seen them.