Eclipse

2. Alisa

“It’s okay, Alisa,” said my friend Mary K. Rowlands on Monday afternoon. “You’re not a guy. You can come in.”

I laughed and followed her into the living room. Both of Mary K.’s parents worked, and she and her sister, Morgan, weren’t allowed to have boys over when their parents weren’t there. It was so funny—almost antique. But her folks are really Catholic and keep Mary K. and Morgan on pretty tight leashes.

“Let’s hang in the kitchen,” Mary K. called over her shoulder.

“That’s where the food is,” I agreed.

Everything about the Rowlandses’ house looks like it got frozen in about 1985. The living room is done in hunter green plaids with maroon accents. The kitchen is dusty blue and dusty pink, with a goose theme. It’s corny, but oddly comforting. Now that my evil stepmother-to-be was madly redecorating the house I shared with my dad, I really appreciated anything familiar.

I dumped my messenger bag on the wood-grained Formica table while Mary K. rustled through the fridge and the pantry. She surfaced with a couple of bottles of Frappuccino, some apples, and a big bag of peanut M&M’s.

I nodded my approval. “I see you’ve covered all the major food groups.”

She grinned.“We aim to please.”

We settled down at the kitchen table with our food and our textbooks open. I had been going to Mary K.’s pretty often after school lately—I guess to avoid going home—and Mary K. was really cool. A good friend. She seemed so normal and kind of reassuring somehow, especially compared to Morgan. Morgan had done a lot to weird me out in the past. I still wasn’t sure what to make of her.

“Alisa?” Mary K. said, twirling a strand of hair around one finger as she frowned at her math book. “Do you have any idea what the difference is between real and natural numbers?”

“No,” I said, and took a swig of Frappuccino. “Hey, did Mark ask you out for Friday?”

“No,” she said, looking disappointed. She’d been crushing on Mark Chambers for weeks now, but though he was really nice to her, he didn’t seem to be picking up on her “date me” vibes. “But it’s only Monday. Maybe I could ask him, if he hasn’t asked me by Thursday.”

“You go, Mary K. Fight the system.” I smiled, encouraging her. Then I sighed, thinking about my own romantic possibilities. “God, I wish I had a crush on someone. Or someone had a crush on me. Anything to break up the delirious joy of being around my dad and Hilary.”

Mary K. made a sympathetic face.“How’s the Hiliminator?”

I shrugged, my shoulders rising and falling dramatically. “Well, she’s still with us,” I reported dryly, and Mary K. laughed. My dad’s pregnant girlfriend had recently moved into our house, and now she was already pooching out in front, before they were actually getting hitched. I couldn’t believe my straitlaced, ultraconservative dad had gotten himself into this nightmare. It was like living with a couple of strangers. “But she’s quit barfing, which is good. Every time I had to listen to her hurl, I got the dry heaves.”

“Maybe the baby will be incredibly cute, and you’ll be a great big sister, and when she grows up, you guys will be really close,” Mary K. suggested. She couldn’t help it: she was born to pour sunshine on other people. It was one of the things I loved about her.

“Yeah,” I allowed. “Or maybe it’ll be a boy, and when I’m forced to change his diaper, he’ll pee right in my face.”

“Oh, gross!” Mary K. shrieked, and we both started laughing. “Alisa, that is so, so gross. If he ever does that, do not tell me about it.”

“Anyway,” I said with a giggle, “I’ve been suggesting names. If it’s a girl, Alisa Junior. If it’s a boy, Aliso.”

We were still laughing about that one when the back door opened and Morgan came in. She smiled when she saw us, and I made myself smile back. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Morgan. It was mostly that I thought she was kind of dangerous—even though she could be nice and thoughtful sometimes. Morgan is a witch, a real witch. Some kids around here are—they call themselves blood witches because they’re born to it, like having blue eyes or bad skin. Mary K. isn’t, because though they are sisters, Morgan was adopted.

Morgan and some other kids from my high school (Mary K. is a freshman, I’m a sophomore, and Morgan is a junior) even have their own coven, called Kithic. I had been to circles with Kithic and had thought they were so... incredible. Special. Natural, somehow. But I had quit going a while back when Morgan had started making scary things happen, like breaking things without touching them. Like that girl in Carrie. And I saw her make crackling blue energy on her hand once. Mary K. had even told me (in total secret) that she thought Morgan had done something magicky when their aunt’s girlfriend had cracked her head open at an ice rink. Mary K. said that Paula had looked like she was really hurt, and everyone was freaking, but Morgan put her hands on her and fixed her. I mean, how scary is that? It wasn’t anything I wanted to be around.

“Youngsters,” Morgan greeted us with a snobby nod. But she was just kidding—she and Mary K. get along really well.

“You know, Morgan,” Mary K. said with an innocent expression, “I’m the same age younger than you as you are from Hunter. Isn’t that funny?” No one can look more wide-eyed and who-me? than Mary K.

Morgan dropped her backpack on the kitchen table with a heavy thud and gave Mary K. a poisonous look—then they both laughed. I wished I had a sister—no, not one fifteen years younger than me, but a real one, whom I could talk to and hang out with, who could join forces with me against my wicked stepmonster-to-be.

“Studying, are we?” Morgan asked.

“We are,” said Mary K. “Trying to, at least.”

Morgan reached into the fridge and grabbed a Diet Coke. She popped the top and drank, leaning against the counter. Hilary had banished sodas from our house—we were all supposed to eat more healthily than that—and I found myself watching Morgan with envy. I almost wanted to have a soda here just because I could, even though I hate Diet Coke. Morgan set down the can, wiped her mouth on her sleeve, and breathed out. She’d gotten her fix.

“You know, watching you do that makes me feel... tainted somehow,” Mary K. observed, and Morgan laughed again.

“Nature’s perfect food,” she said, then got some hamburger out of the fridge and pulled out a big frying pan. When the fridge door shut again, a small gray cat streaked into the room and stood around mewing.

“He heard the fridge,” Mary K. said.

“Hey, Dag, sweetie,” Morgan said, bending down to give him a tiny bit of hamburger. The kitten mewed loudly again, then chowed down, purring hard.

“Are we having tacos?” Mary K. asked.

“Burritos.” Morgan opened the package and dumped the meat into the pan.

“The Hiliminator can’t stand the smell of meat lately,” I said, feeling a thin new layer of irritation settle over me. “Or fried food. Or spicy food. It makes her sick. We’re down to like three acceptable food items at my house: bread, rice, and crackers.”

Morgan nodded as sympathetically as Mary K. had. “You can come over here and eat real food whenever you want.”

“Thanks,” I said. “So you’re going to ask Mark out?” I asked Mary K.

“I guess,” said Mary K.

“He’s cute,” said Morgan. She put a cutting board on the table, elbowing her backpack out of the way. The top hadn’t been fastened tight, and a couple of books and notebooks spilled out. I glanced at them as she pushed the bag aside and set a block of cheddar cheese on the board, along with a grater. “Grate,” she told Mary K.

“I’m doing my homework,” Mary K. pointed out.

“You’re talking about cute guys. Grate.”

The books in Morgan’s backpack caught my eye. One was an advanced calc book; then there were two spiral notebooks with doodles on the covers, and another, green-covered book, like an old-fashioned diary, peeped out from underneath those.

“Oh, did you notice Mom’s crocuses out front?” Morgan asked, rolling up her sleeves. As usual, she looked like Morgan of the Mounties, in a plaid flannel shirt, worn jeans, and clogs. Somehow it looked okay on her. If I wore that, I would look like a truck driver.

Mary K. shook her head, busily grating.“What about ’em?”

“They’re dying, dead,” said Morgan. She pulled her long brown hair out of the way, braided it in back of her head, and snapped an elastic on the end. “They only started blooming last week, ’cause it’s been so cold. The crocuses were up and the hyacinths were starting to to poke out—now they’re all brown lumps.”

“It hasn’t frozen lately, has it?” Mary K. asked.

Morgan shook her head. “Mom’s going to be bummed when she sees it. Maybe they have some kind of disease.” She started slicing a head of lettuce, making long strips suitable for burritoing.

“Hmmm,” said Mary K.

I was listening to all this with only one ear because I just couldn’t stop looking at Morgan’s books. Not books, really. Book. It was freaky, but I was just dying to know what that green book was. I couldn’t think about anything else until I figured it out. I didn’t even know I was reaching for it when I finally realized Mary K. had been saying, “Alisa? Alisa?”

“Oh, what? Sorry,” I said as Morgan turned around from the stove.

“I was saying that if you liked someone, too, then maybe we could all go out, the four of us, and then it wouldn’t be so weird for me and Mark,” she repeated.

“Oh.” The words barely even registered. All I could think was green book, green book, green book. What was wrong with me? I tried to shake it off. “Um, well, I don’t really like anyone. And no one likes me,” I admitted. “I mean, people like me, but no guys specifically like me.”

Mary K. frowned.“Why not? You’re such a cutie.”

I laughed. I knew I wasn’t hideous—my dad is Hispanic, and I have his dark eyes and olive skin. My mom was Anglo, so my hair is a honey-streaked brown. I’m kind of different looking, but I don’t make babies scream. But so far my sophomore year at Widow’s Vale High had been a total bust, guys-wise. “I don’t know.”

“Morgan, do you know any guys, like friends of friends, that maybe we could set something up with?” Mary K. went on, and my mind and eyes wandered again to the stupid green book. What was it? I wanted to know. I needed to know. I shook my head silently, wondering what was going on. Why was I being so weird? It was like this crazy green book was invading my mind. Was this a temporary thing, or was it going to last? Years from now, was I going to be sitting in a padded cell somewhere, babbling, “Green book, green book, green book”? It was probably just some horrible extra-credit calc or something.

“That’s a cool book,” I heard Morgan say, and my head snapped up to see her and Mary K. both looking at me. I jerked back my hand, realizing with embarrassment that I had been reaching for the book again. What was with me? “It’s a Book of Shadows,” Morgan explained, glancing at Mary K., who seemed to take no notice. “I just got it today at Practical Magick.”

I frowned and put both my hands in my lap. Magick. So it was a witch book. Well, that oughta cure me. I’d had enough freaky encounters with witchy things—and witchy people.

“Oh, dang!” Morgan said, turning around with irritation. “I forgot the stupid flavor packet! Well, I’m not going back to the store.”

As she stood, frowning, the refrigerator door swung open. A glass butter dish, complete with butter, crashed to the ground, shattering. We all stared at it.

“Was that propped on something in there?” Mary K. asked.

“It was in the butter thing on the door,” Morgan said, frowning even more.

I jumped up almost without realizing it. Oh, God, not again, I thought as horror filled my veins. Morgan just could not control her powers! She was a walking hazard! I had to get away from her. I hated this kind of stuff. True, this was just a broken butter dish, but I’d seen far worse happen before. Who knew what would happen next? What if she made knives start flying around or something?

“Did you not close the door?” Mary K. persisted. Morgan sighed and tiptoed to the broom closet, taking out a broom and a dustpan. Morgan with a broom, I thought. How appropriate.

“No, I closed it.” Morgan sounded fed up. “I don’t know what happened.”

Uh-huh. And my mom is Queen Elizabeth, I thought.

Morgan scowled down at the broken dish as if she could reconstruct it with her eyes and make it all rush backward and mend itself, like in the movies. Actually, maybe she could. I didn’t know.

“I didn’t—” she began, and then her head lifted. “Hunter,” she said. Wiping her hands on a kitchen towel, she walked out the kitchen door, leaving hamburger sizzling on the stove, a broken butter dish (that she had broken) right there on the floor. A moment later we heard the front door open and shut.

“What about Hunter?” I said.

Mary K. looked a little uncomfortable as she used a paper towel to pick up the glass-encrusted butter and put it in the trash. “Hunter’s here, I guess.”

“Did you hear his car?” I didn’t even know why I was asking. I knew the answer. It was Morgan, Morgan the witch, Morgan and her freaky powers. She’d heard Hunter coming with her superpowerful witchy ears.

Mary K. shrugged and began to sweep up glass. I stood up and turned off the fire under the hamburger, giving the meat a quick stir. Without meaning to, I glanced at the table and was immediately drawn again to the green book. What was it about that book?