Be Careful What You Witch For

  Be Careful What

  You WITCH For

  THOMAS HOOBLER

  Booktrope Editions

  Seattle, WA 2015

  COPYRIGHT 2015 THOMAS HOOBLER

  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

  Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).

  Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes.

  No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work.

  Inquiries about additional permissions

  should be directed to: info@booktrope.com

  Cover Design by Yosbe Design

  Edited by Tricia Parker

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

  PRINT ISBN: 978-1-5137-0470-8

  EPUB ISBN: 978-1-5137-0520-0

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015919453

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright page

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  More Great YA Reads from Booktrope

  Acknowledgments

  My sincere thanks to the people who helped produce this book:

  Tricia Parker, the editor

  Lydia Johnson, proofreader

  Yosbe Calma, who once again designed a fantastic cover

  And to everyone at Booktrope who patiently answered my questions and solved my problems.

  Thomas Hoobler

  The sound of a match striking broke the silence in the darkened room. Its little flame dimly illuminated the faces of three women sitting around a circular rosewood table. The woman holding the match transferred the flame to the wicks of two black candles on the table. As they took the fire, the room brightened. The woman shook the match and placed its stub in a small white saucer with the pattern of a five-pointed star emblazoned on it. Then she placed her wrinkled hands flat on the table.

  “Have you brought something she’s sent to you?” she asked the woman sitting across from her.

  The woman, whose face was still strikingly beautiful even though she’d reached middle age, held out a folded card with a cartoon character printed on it.

  The older woman looked at it with raised eyebrows. “A birthday card?”

  The second woman shrugged. “They don’t write letters today. They e-mail. The only things she sends me are cards, and I’m fortunate to get those.”

  “It will have to do,” the first woman said. She unfolded the card and placed it on the table, pressing it down so that it stayed flat. Then she brought out a deck of cards and handed it to the third woman, who sat at a right angle to the other two. Without speaking, that woman, whose skin and eyes were dark brown, began to shuffle the pack, murmuring an incantation too quietly for anyone else to hear. Finally, she smoothed the sides of the deck and placed it facedown on the greeting card.

  The three women paused, appealing inwardly to the spirits that they had summoned into the room. Then the first woman slipped the top card off the deck and turned it over. “The Popess,” she said in a grim voice. “Her spirit is often at war with itself.”

  “She’s a teenager,” the second woman added, as if that explained everything.

  Another card was exposed. “Strength,” said the first woman as she saw its face. “Power, as we know, that can be used for good or evil, joy or sadness, creation or destruction.”

  She waited before turning over a third card. The black woman grunted when she saw it. “The Three of Cups,” said the first woman. “A very ambivalent card. It can mean great happiness, arising from a project that was conceived out of love. Or it may mean disaster brought on by an indulgence in the senses.”

  The second woman took a deep breath. “I guess I have my work cut out for me.”

  After a moment, the first woman told her, “She could be one of us, you know.”

  The second woman nodded. “That’s what worries me most.”

  Chapter One

  OLIVIA WAS GLAD she was sitting on the right side of the plane because when it banked to descend for landing, she could see the buildings of New York spread out below. She had been to the city before, but only remembered the way it looked from the streets, with the tall, dark buildings hovering above her like monsters. This time, from the sky, it reminded her more of a fairytale land, with its spires of all shapes reaching into the sky like dragons’ claws. She wondered what it would be like to live on the highest floor of one of those buildings and stand by the window as day blended into night, watching the lights all over the city turning on like a blanket of stars.

  She wouldn’t be doing that on this trip, because Aunt Tilda lived in a five-story brownstone, which was a kind of house somewhere in Greenwich Village. Village sounded like an odd name for a place nestled among those tall buildings, and she imagined Tilda’s house must be like a cottage in the midst of a vast forest of stone and glass. Someplace where a girl would go to hide from wolves.

  Olivia barely remembered her aunt from the previous trip, which had been five years earlier, when Olivia was only nine. She and her mother hadn’t been able to stay at her aunt’s house, of course, because the photographers would have camped outside and swarmed them every time Olivia’s mother appeared. But they did have dinner with Tilda at one of the fancy restaurants where the limo could come right up to the door so Mother could duck in and out.

  The only memory Olivia had of Aunt Tilda was that she was somehow even prettier than Olivia’s mother. That was impossible, of course, first because Tilda was the older sister, and second because... well, because Mother was one of the world’s biggest movie stars and pretty much worked all the time at being beautiful. Olivia knew, but wasn’t allowed to tell, just how many cosmetic surgeries Mother had had, and also how many hours a day she spent in the gym, and even how long it took her to make herself up just to go out in the daytime. At night, of course, Mother had two makeup artists and a hairstylist come to the house to get her in shape to appear at parties or awards ceremonies.

  The plane banked in the other direction, causing a shift in the light, and for a moment Olivia saw only her reflection in the window. She quickly turned away, not wanting to be reminded how ordinary her own looks were. Once, she had overheard one of mother’s friends sum up the sad truth: “You’d think she was adopted.”

  What made it worse was that Mother was always dragging Olivia along with her when she traveled to places. It was, Olivia knew, a reaction to the accusation Olivia’s father had made during their second divorce: that his soon-to-be (for the second time) ex-wife had neglected their only child, poor little Olivia. Mom then had to prove how devoted she was by taking Olivia everywhere, sort of like Paris Hilton’s dog.

  But that just meant there were countless millions of photographs showing Olivia with her mother—on the covers of magazine
s, on TV celebrity shows, all over the Internet. And every time Olivia saw one, she knew that people were looking at it and saying, “Who’s that potato-faced kid with Bedelia Yearwood?” And when they learned that it was her daughter, the best response Olivia could imagine was “Poor kid.”

  She shook her head and looked down at her boarding pass, which she had tucked into a book. Under “passenger name” it read OLIVIA BETTENDORFER. Mom’s real last name, and the one Aunt Tilda still used. The name Olivia would use while she was in New York. Of course, there were people who knew it, but it would lessen the chances of anybody recognizing her. Secretly, Olivia was looking forward to becoming somebody—anybody—other than Bedelia Yearwood’s daughter.

  She was getting the chance because a minor miracle had happened. Some producer had thought it was a good idea to make another movie starring her parents. Both of them. They were going to Egypt to shoot on location, and to encourage the idea that the movie would bring back together the world’s most famous lovers (“since Antony and Cleopatra,” as the press release said), the producer had suggested Olivia be... out of the picture. Not just the movie, but Egypt as well. She apparently spoiled the romantic image.

  They all had a meeting in a lawyer’s office. Olivia wondered if her parents had to pass through a metal detector before entering the building so they wouldn’t kill each other. Anyway, the lawyer had broken it to Olivia gently and, after seeing her parents’ anxious faces, she caught on. They actually thought she minded. Apparently everyone had forgotten that the last time her parents had been in close proximity to each other, large quantities of drugs and alcohol had been consumed, a shotgun had been fired, a kitchen knife had been thrown, and most of the Beverly Hills police force had to come to the house to prevent bloodshed. For much of that evening, Olivia had been hiding in the pool house, where she had locked the door and wondered how much trouble she would be in if she dialed 911 on her cell. (Fortunately, one of the chauffeurs had done it.)

  The last thing she wanted now was to be anywhere nearby if Bedelia and Dirk Yearwood got back together.

  It was clear that her parents were ready to offer her a large bribe if she would agree to enjoy a life of peace and sanity, at least until the picture was finished. Her first reaction was to think it was too bad she wasn’t sixteen, so she could demand a car of her own. The lawyer had found a boarding school in Switzerland, where apparently everyone spent all their time skiing, and so they thought Olivia would be happy there.

  Instead, she’d said, “I’d rather go to New York.”

  Her parents were surprised. So was she, actually. It just popped into her head, maybe because last night she’d been watching Jimmy Fallon. He made New York sound like fun.

  “They don’t ski in New York,” her mother had said. “And you’re too young to stay by yourself.”

  “I could stay with Aunt Tilda,” Olivia suggested.

  An odd look came over her mother’s face. “Tilda? You only met her once. You have no idea—”

  “She sends me birthday presents,” Olivia interrupted. She hadn’t told her mother that she herself had sent Tilda birthday cards, just to suck up to her. “And doesn’t she have a whole house? With no kids of her own?”

  Her father cleared his throat. It was his way of announcing he was going to speak. He even did it in the movies. “You’d have to go to school there,” he said. She could tell he meant it as a warning, like it was a real school.

  “Well, sure,” said Olivia. “I mean, I go to school here.” There were only twelve kids in her school, and all of them had famous parents in the movie industry, but still... it was a school. Sort of.

  “No skiing,” her mother reminded her again.

  Trade skiing for a year of normal life in New York? Olivia thought that was a no-brainer.

  At the departure gate, Olivia scanned the line of chauffeurs holding up signs, looking for one with her new name on it. She half-expected to see a few photographers as well, even though her mother wasn’t with her. It wouldn’t seem like a real trip if there were no photographers. They always found you.

  She felt a little alarmed when it appeared that there were neither photographers nor a chauffeur. Then she saw a tall woman waving and realized with a shock that it was Aunt Tilda. She looked younger than Olivia had remembered, and even though she wore no obvious makeup, Olivia thought that she wasn’t at all bad looking, either. How old was she? Seven years older than Mother, nearly fifty. Olivia would have to ask her, tactfully of course, how she did it.

  As Aunt Tilda hugged her, Olivia noticed her perfume. Or not really perfume, but some scent that seemed to envelop her—like pine trees, but subtler, as if it was the last breath of a wind that had blown through a faraway forest. Smelling it, Olivia had an odd sensation that she could see far off in time. She saw two children playing, two little girls who looked like... she realized they were her mother and Aunt Tilda.

  The image disappeared as Tilda took hold of Olivia’s shoulder and held her at arm’s length, surveying her. “I can see your mother in you more all the time,” said Tilda.

  Olivia laughed. “I wish,” she said. “There isn’t a trace of her in me.”

  “Oh, there is, be assured,” said Tilda. “You just have to let people see it more.”

  They went to the luggage area, where Olivia was a little surprised to have to carry her own bags. Tilda helped, since there were three suitcases, and they went outside and stood in a line, waiting for a taxi. Olivia was going to ask why Tilda didn’t have a limo waiting, but then bit her tongue. Mother had warned her that Tilda “isn’t like the people you know here.” Well, Olivia had seen from the beginning that Mother was against the whole idea of her staying with Tilda, so she had shrugged that off as another way of discouraging her. If Tilda rode around in taxis, Olivia would just grit her teeth and do that too.

  Still, it wasn’t so easy to stand in a line. Usually, anywhere Olivia and her mother went, everybody just stepped aside and let them in, whether there was a line or not. After about five minutes, however, a cab honked its horn, and Tilda stepped toward it. Olivia was relieved at first, but had second thoughts when she saw the driver. He was wearing a turban and some kind of long striped shirt and baggy pants that made Olivia think of terrorists. She had to force herself to follow Tilda, who was already sliding into the backseat as the driver put the suitcases into the trunk.

  As he got behind the wheel, Tilda leaned over and said something in a language Olivia had never heard before. Or maybe she just cleared her throat, because Olivia couldn’t tell the difference. However, she saw the driver smile broadly before he spoke back. The two of them chatted back and forth for a little while before the driver stepped on the gas.

  “What was that?” Tilda whispered. She was too curious not to ask, but was afraid the driver would hear.

  “He’s a Sikh,” Tilda responded, pronouncing the word “sikk,” so that Olivia gave him a worried look as if he had something that might be catching.

  “Sikh,” Tilda explained, “a follower of Sikhism, one of the most important religions in India. I spoke to him in Punjabi, which I knew he’d find comfortable.”

  “Um... how did you know?”

  “I took a couple of courses, and there are some native speakers in my neighborhood that I practice with.”

  “No, I meant... how did you know he was a Sikh?”

  “Well, the turban, dear. They don’t cut their hair, so they tuck it under the turban.”

  “Why did he stop for us?” Olivia was still worried about terrorists. “We weren’t at the front of the line.”

  “Oh... we recognized each other.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Not exactly. Look ahead now, dear. The view is wonderful from here.”

  And it was. All the lights were on by now, and driving toward the city, it looked more like a fairyland than ever. For some reason, Olivia started to get nervous. I could get lost here, she thought.

  “You’ll be fine, dear,
” said Aunt Tilda, as if reading her thoughts.

  Olivia nodded and smiled, wondering if she’d said out loud what she’d been thinking. Or maybe Tilda had just guessed it. The driver said something in Punjabi, and when Tilda replied they both chuckled. Maybe everybody knows what I’m thinking, Olivia thought.

  Tilda reached over and took her hand. All at once, Olivia felt peaceful. She realized that it had been a very long time since she had been so calm, as if she had been clenching her whole body like a fist and only now found out that she could relax.

  The next thing she knew, the cab was coming to a stop in a narrow street lined with cute little five-story houses. Olivia stared. She hadn’t been to Aunt Tilda’s house the last time she came to New York and didn’t really know what it looked like. These houses were pretty enough, but they were so small—only two windows on each floor. How could anybody live in them?

  “We manage,” said Tilda. “Space is a lot more precious in New York than it is in Beverly Hills.”

  Olivia blinked. This time she was sure she hadn’t spoken her thoughts aloud. Before she could say anything, Tilda had gotten out of the cab. The driver set the suitcases on the sidewalk and Tilda gave him some money, along with a few more words in Punjabi. Maybe you had to know it to get around in taxis in New York, Olivia thought. She wondered how hard it would be to learn. Back in California, she had picked up some Spanish, but that didn’t sound anything like Punjabi.

  The driver turned and smiled at her. His teeth were as broad and white as any movie star’s. “Welcome to New York,” he said, clearly and distinctly.

  Riiiight, Olivia thought. “Thanks,” she replied, feeling a little like somebody had played a trick on her.

  She followed Tilda through a small doorway underneath the stone staircase that led to the main entrance. Tilda used a key to open a patterned wrought-iron gate and another key to unlock a steel door beyond that. It seemed like a lot of locks, Olivia thought, but then realized that unlike her mother’s house, this one didn’t have a guard at the front gate.