Later, after Ms. Labelle and the girls had satisfied themselves (and each other) many times, we all sat in the living room. Ms. Labelle was splayed out on the couch, wearing only a bra. Larissa was stretched out next to her, naked completely, her body firm and toned, with all those wonderful little indentions and clefts. I couldn’t help studying her. Her collar bones were perfectly sculpted. Her shoulders were smooth and supple, curving down to shapely breasts, with pink nipples that blended evenly into her creamy skin. Down lower things got better. Her ribs met her tummy in a soft line. Her hips curved gracefully to smooth thighs and lean calves. Her feet were small, her nails painted magenta. I let myself imagine those toes curled tight as she climaxed, which led my gaze to its final destination: her place, plainly visible, glistening still moist, a halo of golden-brown hair around rosy lips.
I had no such fine indentions, nor graceful curves. Where I was pink, it was a garish hue against skin too white. But such things had never bothered me before. Until now. Until I saw Larissa curled into Ms. Labelle’s lap so lovingly. And Ms. Labelle’s gaze fixed on her.
Jessica sat beside me, nestled against me. She was again wearing her tee shirt; I had insisted. Her hand rested on my tummy, but no higher or lower. She had kissed me a few times, on the neck and mouth, but no further, and not passionately. I wouldn’t let her. I kept my promise to Melanie.
When they had started fucking, I watched for a bit. But soon the passion rose in me, the gift of the goddess. They were all so skilled and eager. I had seen Larissa make love before, to Iris on the hill, and that time it had amazed me. Since then her gifts had not lessened. And while Iris was a lovely thing worth watching, Ms. Labelle and Jessica had talents beyond her grasp. The three together became a tornado of sex.
I couldn’t stand to watch, for so many reasons. So I let myself into Ms. Labelle’s study and played on the internet. I tried to shut out the sounds.
After they finished, Ms. Labelle summoned me back into the room. “We’re gonna talk now, dear. Will you join us?”
“Sure.” I clicked off the computer screen.
When we all took our places and got comfortable, Ms. Labelle began the conversation. “So, Larissa, you’re a sorceress, one who commands the spheres?”
Larissa, her head resting in Ms. Labelle’s lap, gazed up at her adoringly. “Sure,” she said. She reached up and caressed Ms. Labelle’s breast. She did that for a bit. Then she bit her bottom lip and her expression turned serious. “Well, not command exactly — ” She sat up straight, her eyes fixed on Ms. Labelle’s face, who returned her intense gaze. “It’s more we request. And if our request is found to be virtuous” — she made air quotes when she said virtuous — “the higher powers grant our wish.”
Next to me, still clinging to me, Jessica tensed up and asked, “Who was the boy who attacked Veronica outside your house?” Softly, Jessica touched my face.
“Hmm. Well… him. He’s one of the lesser beings, assigned to watch me and keep me out of trouble.”
“Oh?” Ms. Labelle said. “Does he follow you?”
“He tries. But I can order him away and he has to leave. For instance, I didn’t invite him to this.”
Again Larissa touched Ms. Labelle; then she kissed her mouth, quick and hot with a flitting tongue. She broke the kiss. “Some things I like to keep to myself. The spheres don’t always — shall we say — approve of my hobbies.”
Ms. Labelle seized Larissa’s shoulders and kissed her breasts. Next to me, Jessica squirmed. “We were gonna talk,” I said.
Ms. Labelle removed her mouth from Larissa’s swollen nipple. Then she sat up and took a deep breath. “Yes. Sorry Veronica. You know how these things come over me.”
Indeed I did. I understood perfectly. Larissa stretched and purred like a cat.
“You’re not a witch,” Jessica said. “We proved it back then, back — you know — during our little thing.”
“Yep,” Larissa said. “I’m no witch.”
She said it like she was proud of the fact. At last she broke her gaze from Ms. Labelle. Now she peered at Jessica, locked her eye to eye. Jessica glowered.
It appeared the dislike between these two was strong enough to overmatch even the mutual afterglow of sex. Jessica pressed close and took my hand. Larissa said, “So that’s one thing I don’t get — what’s the deal with Veronica? Why is everyone so crazy over her?”
Jessica turned to face me, stared deeply at me, like she — and this was something I would never have expected — like she cared, Like it might matter to her if I was hurt.
Ms. Labelle spoke. “She’s beautiful to us, an angel.”
Larissa snorted. “Ha! I’ve seen angels.”
“Maybe it’s a witch thing,” I said. “See, we have this crazy witch-lust thing. Maybe they want me so much because I’m a strong witch.”
Jessica reached for my breasts, but hesitated at the last moment. Her fingertips stopped less than an inch away.
“That doesn’t explain Iris and Melanie,” Larissa said.
I shrugged. Jessica, her hand still close, her gaze locked to my face, said, “Fuck off, Larissa.”
Ms. Labelle grabbed Larissa’s hand and quickly put a finger to the girl’s mouth. Then she shot a pleading glance to Jessica. “Girls. Please. There are more important things.”
Jessica withdrew her hand. I spoke. “Larissa is mad at me because her girlfriend has a crush on me.” Everyone stopped talking. Every gaze shifted to me. “Like, I understand. It’s cool. If it were me, I’d feel the same.”
“Oh yeah?” Larissa said. “Would you, if our places were switched, if it was your sweet Melanie?”
She peered at me and I wondered, did she want an answer from me, to that? Ms. Labelle sat up and seemed tense. Larissa went on, “Yeah, Veronica, how would you feel then, if your little Mel wanted what I had to offer?”
Indeed, Larissa, what if that?
“Larissa,” Ms. Labelle said, “I don’t think you need to worry. I know Veronica, she understands, and she cares very much about people. She’ll do the right thing.”
“Right,” I said. “I’m not after Iris.”
Sweet, pretty Iris with her soft blue eyes, her pale thighs, her darling-idiotic black dresses in lace, the way she seemed to stumble when she walked, as if you might run to embrace her, to save her from falling, to hug and hug, and put a fragile smile on her lovely, bleak face — or a look of desperate passion as she shook and came.
No, I didn’t want Iris at all.
“Larissa…” I said.
My voice faltered. As the mood fell lower, Ms. Labelle said, “Larissa, Veronica won’t have sex with a girl unless Melanie is with her, even though she wants to so much; we can all see that. Still, she remains true. But then, if Iris wants this thing, you might let her have it… Just as you were with us today. But make the same rule, never without you. Would that not be wonderful, the four of you — ”
“No!”
Larissa and I shouted it at exactly the same time.
No! Not Melanie and Larissa together. No!
Larissa moved her fierce gaze from Jessica. Now she scowled at me.
“Never,” she said in a sharp voice. I nodded. About this one thing, we agreed.
The conversation never recovered. Jessica continued to frown. Larissa became more and more hostile, glaring at me, snapping when questioned, fidgeting on the couch. Ms. Labelle tried to save the mood. She asked how Larissa had learned her magic, from whom, and when? On which entities did she call? Had she seen them? Did they speak to her?
She rested her hand softly on Larissa’s leg. Larissa sat tight lipped. “Some things are secret,” she said, looking at Ms. Labelle’s hand, seeming to hesitate. But she did not move, nor smile, nor gaze longingly into Ms. Labelle’s eyes. Instead her mouth tightened. “I bet you don’t reveal every secret of witchcraft to any non-witch who happens along with too much curiosity.”
“Nah. We fuck them,” Jessica snapped.
Which didn’t help at all.
When we left, we took separate paths. I headed down Devonshire toward Downtown Crossing. Larissa went toward the Common, where her car was parked.
My last words to her: “Larissa, sorry. I hope we can fix this and be friends.”
She said nothing. Which was fine; I didn’t quite mean it.
When I got home, I rushed to Melanie’s room and found her on her bed reading. “Hey babe,” I said.
She turned to me. “Hey. Where were you?”
I shrugged. “Downtown, just bopping around.”
She nodded and said, “Hmm.” Then she turned back to her book. I crawled into bed next to her and put my arm around her.
“Mel, sweetie, wanna play?”
I kissed her cheek. She tensed up. “Can’t. Mom’s up and about.”
I ran my fingers gently up and down her back. “We could go upstairs. Dad’s probably drunk. Mom’s probably out or something.”
Melanie shrugged. “She was down earlier talking to my mom. I heard her go back up.” Her eyes returned to her book.
Another small kiss. “Still,” I said, “some things are worth the chance.”
She sighed and closed her book. Then she turned to face me, very close.
“Okay.”
We kissed. Then we got up and crept out the door, up the stairs, through my back door, into my room. There we made love quietly, while hearing the bellowing complaints of my father come through the walls, along with the quiet patter of my mother’s feet. When we finished, I clung to her and felt the afterglow, the warmth, her closeness. After a bit, far too little, she fidgeted and said, “I’m gonna go back down. Okay?”
I gave her a small kiss. “Sure, sweetie.”
She rose from the bed, went through the door, and left me alone in my quiet room. Time passed. Dust floated through the narrow shafts of sunlight that penetrated the cracks in my blinds. From across the apartment, I heard a brief spell of furious shouting. A short time later, I heard my mother cry.
Back at school on Monday, I wandered through the halls to strange looks. Yeah, I was Bad Veronica, the criminal. Girls snickered as I passed. Guys made the normal crude comments that guys liked to make. My teachers were horrible. They shoved my homework in my face and made it quite clear I was on my own catching up; I’d get no help from them.
It wasn’t a big deal. Not really. Ms. Labelle was right. I needed to learn stuff for real, to make my own way, to know the game everyone played so I could play it better. But, honestly, I didn’t see how Social Studies or Algebra would help me at this point. When I needed to learn that stuff, I would figure it out. Plus, I was pretty sure my teachers weren’t going to tell me the truth about things.
After school Melanie and I rushed home. My mom was out, at work according to my dad. He was drunk in his chair, watching a movie that featured Nazis as the villains. There were gunshots, explosions, and the roar of engines. A tall Nazi in a crisp uniform barked orders to his fleeing men. Melanie and I retreated into the apartment and through my door, which I locked behind us. Then we set up the candle, formed the circle, and I cast.
I was going to try Marketing Impulse again, to catch the late afternoon lag. Would something be happening? Mom was there now. Maybe seeing her in action would help.
When I arrived, things were indeed slow. The receptionist was clicking around on her computer, checking Facebook, her email, and some photo site that showed pictures of her drunk friends in skimpy outfits. She stopped on this one picture, a blond guy with bright eyes and muscles, holding a beer. She let out a long sigh. A soft look crossed her heavily made-up face. She stroked her leg beneath the hem of her short green dress, through her sheer blue stockings.
I left her alone. Watching her touch herself was pleasant, but it wouldn’t help Mom.
I found Mom in her office barking into the phone. She was arguing, evidently, about some photo shoot that was scheduled for tomorrow. From the panic in her voice, the abruptness of her pleading, it appeared that everything possible was going wrong. The deal was about to fall apart. Whoever she was talking to appeared to be her only hope.
Scattered across her desk were sketches showing happy teens in scandalous poses. She took one and glanced at it. “Look,” she said, “call Crimshaws and make sure they have Jenny available. She’d be perfect for this shoot. And I don’t want that Annie. Don’t let them even suggest it.” Moments later she let out a long sigh. “Fine. Call me right back.” She clicked off her phone and tossed it onto her desk. Then she leaned back in her chair and let out a long deep groan.
“This just isn’t worth it,” she muttered to herself.
Mom didn’t have one of the nice offices. Beyond her door was no lovely secretary. Nor did she sit before a wide window with a sweeping view. No, her view was gray cabinets and sagging shelves. Her walls were covered by a constellation of faded post-its marked with a lifetime of scribbles. No doubt each thing was important. It all mattered. The ebb and flow of furious activity through the heart of the business. Her phone rang.
“Yeah, Mark? Got it…? Got her…? Great! Okay, tell Marcel to be there at 2:00. And make sure he’s on time this time.” She paused and, while pinching the tiny phone to her ear with her shoulder, fumbled through her purse. “Okay. Good. I’ll call in the morning.”
With one hand she caught the phone as it fell. With the other she pulled a pack of gum from her purse. “Arrr!” she said as she clicked off the phone and unwrapped the gum. The phone went back into her purse, the gum into her mouth. She leaned forward and pinched her nose.
Before, when she had brought me to her office to introduce me to everyone, it seemed a pleasant place. People were nice to me. They were nice to Mom. Nothing seemed panicked, nor rushed, nor stressed out. Her office was clean. There had been a picture on her desk that showed Dad, her, and me all together. It was from our trip to New York when I was thirteen, us on top of the Empire State Building. Dad wore a blue hat, Mom her pretty yellow blouse. It was a rainy, foggy day, I recalled. Manhattan swept out behind us to the misty edge of the world.
Today she still had a picture on her desk, just one. It was of me as a little girl. I was in my little blue one-piece, running through the backyard while someone out of view sprayed me with a stream of water. My pale skin glistened. My dark hair fell to my shoulders. Behind me, on the picnic table, under the sprawling tree, was the blurry form of Melanie.
Some guy poked his head into her office. “Amanda! Got bad news.”
“What?”
He was a lanky guy with straight, dishwater-brown hair, which was long enough that he shoved it behind his ears. His shirt was a pastel button-down, untucked. His jeans were rugged with torn knees. He held the doorframe while he said, “Eliot just called. There’s been some last minute changes in the client’s concept, so we’re putting off the shoot till next week. Will you get that set up?”
For a few moments she just looked and blinked. He went on, “Stay tough, sweetie. And make the call. Set it for next Wednesday.”
He replaced a loose strand of hair that had fallen over his eyes. Then he ducked back out of her office. She looked at her purse. She reached in and tugged out her phone. Then she dialed.
Moments later she said, “Mark, please, you there…? Look, we gotta reschedule. Call me.”
She disconnected and sighed. Then she leaned forward with her head in her hands.
I left her and drifted deeper into the place, again to Mr. Hobaugh’s office. This time, when I arrived, I found his door closed and his secretary leaning back in her chair. Her feet were up on the edge of the desk. Her head was tilted back as far as it would go, far enough that it looked as if the slightest push would send her over. She was chatting on the phone to a friend, a conversation made of small laughs and bursts of, “Oh no! He didn’t! Tell me more!”
I drifted past her, through the door and into the empty office. The lights were off and from outside the late autumn afternoon cast little light. The shadows were soft. The room seemed quiet and still. Even the constant bursts of witless laughter from his secretary seemed muted and far.
It was strange to find a place so peaceful so close to where my mother fretted and seethed. I drifted to the window and took in Mr. Hobaugh’s magnificent view.
But only for so long. It was late, and the office would soon shut down. Back to the hall, down the row of window offices, until I found one still occupied.
It was Andrea Dawlton in her plush office. Hers was not nearly as large as Mr. Hobaugh’s, nor did it have his vast collection of books. There wasn’t an ornate cabinet set on a thick rug, which held expensive scotch. No, this office had clean lines. The only shelves were glass and attached directly to the wall. They were bare, clear of even dust. Her chair was sleek and looked like something that belonged on the bridge of a spaceship. Her desk was glass-topped in a modernist style. On that desk sat only three things: her designer leather purse, placed near the edge; a laptop computer with a huge screen; and a single ticket to a show, which lay directly before her as if set in the perfect place for her to read the words.
Like everyone else here today, she was talking on the phone.
“Alain, dearest! Hi! This is Andrea… I know… I know, look, I have to reschedule… Alain, darling… Yes, I just got a ticket to that Urban Nutcracker, you know, the one with Jazz and sexy people… No, from a friend, and I couldn’t refuse… Yes, I know this puts you out, but what would you do? Right, dearest! Chalk me in for next Wednesday, and you know I’ll make it right… Great! You’re a doll!”
She hung up her phone and set it on the desk next to the ticket. Then she spun around and looked out the window. The view here was not as great as Mr. Hobaugh’s. This window faced another office building, the Prudential Tower, and instead of the quaint streets of Back Bay, Andrea gazed at shiny windows and stark cement.
But still, the view seemed to satisfy her. When I drifted forward to see her face, there was a wide smile. She leaned back and put her hands behind her head.
It wasn’t fair. This whole deal, that she should sit that way, in such luxury, planning such a delightful evening while my mother worked herself bone-weary to provide it.
Andrea’s phone rang. She spun around and answered.
“Hey Bob! Huh…? No, sorry, not tonight… Would you believe I got a ticket to the Nutcracker… No, the urban one with Jazz… Yeah, I know, right! Maybe next week…” She paused and listened for a bit. “That sounds lovely, sweetie. Look, call me on Thursday and I’ll let you know. Okay…? Fine. See ya.”
She hung up her phone. Then she dialed a number.
“John, this is Andrea — Andrea Dawlton from twenty-three-forty-five. Look, can you have the car service pick me up tonight…? Right, no, I’m going to the show, so I’ll need them to also collect me at 10:30 at the Wheelock… Great! I’ll be downstairs at 6:30.”
Again she clicked off her phone and set it on the desk. Again she turned and faced out the window.
“I should get something new to wear,” she muttered to herself. Then she grabbed her phone again and dialed.
“Hey, Naomi, this is Andrea… Yeah. Look, I want a new outfit for a show tonight… No, the one with Jazz… Right. I’m thinking a dress, something in red. Anything new in? My size?” She listened intently. Then she said, “Yes! That sounds amazing. Hold it for me and I’ll swing by. Awesome!”
It was too much. A fancy new dress for a trendy show, a car service to carry her there, a posh building with a full-time concierge who lived to do her bidding. I knew that Ms. Labelle had these things, when she wanted them, but this was different. Somehow Ms. Labelle seemed to live up to her lifestyle. Andrea Dawlton did not.
Anyhow, if Andrea Dawlton deserved these things, my mom did even more.
Andrea shoved the ticket and her phone into her bag and rose from her chair.
Something else was clear, a way to blackmail her was not going to present itself. I could not follow her all day, nor could I hope to be near her that one perfect time when she said that one perfect thing. No, I would need to dig for something on her, I would need to push.
Or, I would need something even more ambitious.
As she rounded the desk and stepped toward the door, I spoke in a loud clear voice. “Andrea Dawlton. Stop!”
She froze in place.
“Turn around.”
She spun around and faced me. I moved close, inches from her, so close I could feel her breath passing through my spirit form. But her eyes focused beyond me, on the walls and windows, darting around frantically, seeking the source of the voice. She stepped back. “Who is it? Where are you?”
I rose to the ceiling, so that my voice would come from above. “Andrea Dawlton, today is a very special day.”
She moved her mouth like she would say something, but no sound came. I continued, “You’ve been chosen, Andrea. I am a spirit from beyond the spheres, a great spirit, and I have looked on you and been amazed.”
She blinked, but also she seemed to relax. I saw it in her eyes, her fixed expression, her firm posture. I could guess her thoughts: of course the spirits would be amazed by me!
It would do me no good to try to scare her, or manipulate her, or bribe her. I couldn’t beat her at that game. Once I directly asked her to help my mom, she’d guess who I was and have me figured out in no time. She’d play me like a drum.
But if I overwhelmed her first, if I got her where I wanted her first, before the game began — that is, before she knew what she was playing for — I thought maybe I could win.
On my own! Without anybody’s help!
She stepped forward with her shoulders firm and her chin held high. “All right, spirit-girl. What do you want?”
I let out a small laugh. “No, Andrea Dawlton, that’s the wrong question! Do you want to know the right question?” She glanced around, seeming bold, perfectly composed. Then she nodded. I continued. “The right question is, what do you want? What dark mysterious deed can I do for Andrea Dawlton, that even she cannot do herself?”
Slowly, a look of sheer joy crossed her face. “You gotta be fucking kidding me!”