“Hello?” A voice came out of nowhere.
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4
I started. It was a woman, standing as if she’d always been there. Yet, I hadn’t seen her before. The streets had been quiet, empty.
“Hello?” she repeated. “Are you all right? Did they hurt you?”
So she had seen? But how? There had been no one there. No one! The boys would never have thrown rocks at me with witnesses. They were dumb but smarter than that. Bullies always knew how to hide it.
Finally, I spoke. “I’m . . . I’m fine.”
“I see that.” She stepped closer. I noticed the crow was gone. It had been exactly where the woman now stood. “You don’t have a scratch on you. How is that . . . Violet?”
A chill wind rippled through the trees. “How did you know my name?”
She shrugged. “Lucky guess, I suppose. Was I right?”
“You know you were.”
She smiled. She had long, black hair and wore a dress of sheer, iridescent material, first black, then purple, now green, flowing around her. Her hair caught the strained sun and seemed to do the same. I couldn’t determine her age. She was beautiful. “You look like a Violet, I suppose.”
“No, I don’t.” First off, no one was named Violet. If you wanted to guess the name of a girl at my school, you might choose right with Jennifer, Kathy, Lisa, or Michelle. But I was the only Violet. “Violets are pretty, with their little faces turned to the sun, hopeful. I’m not pretty. I’m not hopeful either.”
She walked closer. Her black hair blew around her face. “You could be anything you want to be.”
I laughed. That sounded like something a mom would say. Anyone’s mom but mine. “I can only be what I am.”
“Sometimes, what you are is more than enough. How did you get those birds to come?”
“They just showed up.”
“Pretty convenient, wouldn’t you say? Ever hear of birds attacking anyone like that?”
“In a movie once.”
“You won’t hear about this time either. The boys will consider telling their parents, but, eventually, will decide it makes them sound guilty. Or crazy.”
There were no cars anywhere. We were alone. Her eyes were a strange bright green, like a Sprite bottle.
“How about you?” she asked. “Have you had any other experiences with birds?”
“Who are you?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Kendra. I live here.” She pointed at the house on the hill, the one I was sure was abandoned. “I’d ask you in, but, of course, your mother would disapprove of your coming inside a stranger’s house.”
Now her eyes seemed brown.
“Actually, I doubt she’d care.” I knew the second I said it that it was the wrong thing to say. What if she was a kidnapper or something? But it just popped out. Besides, I’d never heard of a woman kidnapper.
“Ah, so she knows.”
“Knows what?”
“That you can take care of yourself. And, of course, she’s right. You can. Self-sufficiency is one of the few benefits of being lonely.”
“How did you know . . . ?” I stopped. I was going to ask how she knew I was lonely, but of course, I knew: Anyone as ugly as I was would be lonely.
I started to walk away, then turned back.
“Once, I saved a bird.”
I expected her to react with surprise or, at least, interest. Social interaction wasn’t a huge thing with me, but I thought the normal thing to say was, “You did?” or “How did you save it?” Instead, she just nodded, as if unsurprised.
Maybe I should have walked away. Yet I always felt I owed people an explanation, so I told her the story. “I guess I didn’t really save it,” I concluded. “It just sort of felt like—”
“No, you did save it,” she said.
“How do you know?”
“I was there. You were ten years old.”
The hairs on my arms stood on end. How was that possible? I remembered the bird, the one I’d seen watching me. Then, the birds today, attacking Nathan and Nick. Were they related? Was it possible that the bird that day somehow remembered me, had told the other birds?
Crazy.
But the woman—Kendra—repeated, “I was there.” Then she waved her hand in the air and disappeared. Where had she gone? A crow cawed from somewhere. I looked down. It was right where Kendra had been standing. Then, in a heartbeat, the crow was gone, and Kendra was back.
“How did you do that?” I felt breathless.
I knew the answer, though. Magic.
“There are people in this world who have powers, Violet.” The sun was already beginning to set, streaking the sky behind her in strange shades of purple and orange. “I am one of those people. And so are you.”
“That’s crazy. If I have powers, why can’t I . . . ?” I stopped, unsure, for once, how to express the thought: Why did everyone hate me, if I was so powerful?
“Think of what you know of witches. Does anything you have heard or read lead you to believe they are universally beloved?”
Witches. I turned the word over and over in my head, not understanding at first, as if it was a foreign language.
I thought about witches in books, the old woman in the gingerbread house, the green-faced crone in Wizard of Oz. But they were evil. The gingerbread witch had tried to bake Hansel and Gretel. The Witch of the West had captured Dorothy with an army of flying monkeys.
Kendra said, “I was ten when I first started noticing my own powers. But nothing big happened until I was thirteen. How old are you now, Violet?”
Thirteen. But I didn’t, couldn’t say it. I stepped back. If this woman was a witch, would she try to kidnap me? Bake me? Hold me hostage? I wanted to turn and flee. Yet my feet felt suctioned to the ground.
And I wanted to stay. I needed to hear what else she had to say. Was she saying that she was a witch? Or that I was?
Kendra chuckled, not a high witch cackle, but a low sound from the bottom of her throat. “You think all witches are evil, yes?”
I didn’t know what to say. If she was a witch, I didn’t want to insult her—especially if she was evil. I noticed the street I’d just passed, Salem Court, named for a place where women were hanged as witches. In school, we’d learned they weren’t really witches. Now, I wondered.
“I’ve only read about witches in books. Are they real?” I said to the woman who’d changed from a human to a bird. “Are they evil?”
“Witches are all different, just like everyone else. Some are nice, some not. What we all are, however, is lonely.”
Lonely. The word washed over me like summer rain.
“But occasionally,” Kendra continued, “I meet a kindred spirit, and when I do, I keep my eye on that person.”
“Keep your eye on me? Have you been spying on me?”
I expected her to deny that, but instead, she nodded. “Since that day at the playground, I’ve watched you.”
“As a bird?”
“Or with this.” From the air, she produced a shining object, a mirror, surrounded by silver curlicues. She held it out. I cringed at my ugly face.
But she said, “This is a magical mirror. With it, you can see anything, anyone.”
“How?” I reached for the mirror.
“Just ask.”
“Ask.” I had a hard enough time talking to people. What would I say to a mirror? They’d always been my enemies.
“Think of someone, anyone in the world you want to see, and the mirror will show you.”
Without hesitating, I said, “Show me Greg.”
My hideous face faded from view. The image changed to a room, a house I didn??
?t know. Greg sat with Jennifer, books spread out before them, studying. Or, at least, Greg was trying to study. Jennifer was babbling on. I searched Greg’s face for signs of annoyance. Greg took studying seriously, like I did. He’d once threatened not to study with me when all I’d done was ask if he wanted a glass of water!
But now, Greg smiled, then laughed—laughed!—at something Jennifer had said. He pointed at the math book just as Jennifer was trying to turn a page. Their hands touched. Greg turned away, blushing. He always blushed. I knew why he didn’t mind Jennifer’s chatter. Jennifer was beautiful, unlike me. Jennifer was everything I wasn’t. The light gleamed off her blond, straight hair. I could feel my own frizz curling on my neck. Jennifer turned her fair, unblemished cheek toward Greg, and I could feel the hurt of the zits on my own cheek. Greg leaned toward her and then . . .
He kissed her! Greg actually kissed Jennifer!
The mirror fell from my hand and clattered to the ground. It shattered like ice against the black pavement. I jumped when a shard cut my ankle. “Oh!”
I knelt down in the splintered glass, not caring if the bits and pieces embedded themselves in my hands and knees. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Oh, but I hate mirrors. I didn’t do this on purpose, though.” I picked up one of the larger fragments. It caught the waning sun, reflecting it into my eyes. I saw my own face in it, red, blotchy, a tear dripping from my too-light blue eyes.
And then, the fragment moved. I almost dropped it a second time, but I reached over with my other hand and caught it. The moving fragment sliced my palm. I wanted to cry out, but I didn’t, couldn’t speak, for at that moment, I saw what was happening.
The fragment, all the fragments, moved in the air like shimmering leaves, catching the light. As they fluttered together, my slice of glass slid from my hands. It joined the others, forming a silver oval. Then it flew into Kendra’s hand.
I felt my mouth hanging open. I closed it. “How . . . ?” My finger had a heartbeat.
Kendra laid her hand upon mine. “Think about it. I’m sure you can work it out.”
I flinched under her touch, but somehow, I couldn’t remove my hand. When she finally pulled hers away, the cut had disappeared.
“What did you do?”
“Shh. People use too many words nowadays, always talking on the phone, in person. There is a place in the world, I believe, for thought.”
I started to say something else, but I couldn’t. It was almost as if someone was covering my mouth.
“Silent thought. One minute. Begin now.”
I didn’t want to think. I wanted to run. And yet, I couldn’t because, more than that, I wanted to know. The mirror. The cut. The birds. Kendra was telling the truth about being a witch. And if she was telling the truth about herself, was it true about me too?
What did it mean?
I stared at Kendra. Her eyes looked green again. Finally, she said, “Are you willing to speak now?”
I tried to put it into words. “If I’m a witch, can I make things . . . ?” What was the word I wanted?
“Better? Maybe. Different? Yes.”
“Happen. Can I make things happen?”
“Depends what you’re asking for. World peace? End to hunger. Because, no, you can’t do those things. No one has enough power for that.”
Before I could stop myself, I blurted, “I want to be beautiful. Can that happen?”
It sounded so bare, out in the open like that, out in the empty street. Yet, it was the only thing I wanted, had ever wanted. Well, that and Greg. I knew beauty was nothing. But it was also everything.
“Yes, yes, I can do that. Or, rather, you can.”
“How?”
She stared into the distance. The street was silent, no cars, no people, only that wind that picked up the dead leaves and whirled them around, finally sending them skittering away like so many winged insects.
Eventually, she said, “Not all at once. Changing things too quickly is how one gets discovered. But slow changes are fine. I’ve found that most people are stupid and unobservant.”
“So how—?”
“Come here tomorrow.” She pointed at the boarded-up house. Again, I remembered my mother—or probably someone else’s mother—saying not to go with strangers. And yet I knew my mother wouldn’t mind. If this woman could make me beautiful, she’d think it was a risk worth taking.
I said, “Can I see the mirror again?”
She drew it back out from the folds of her gown. Her eyes were brown now “Don’t break it.”
“I won’t.”
I grasped it and brought it up to my face. I studied myself, crooked nose, freckles, frizzy hair, everything.
“Can I . . . can you change one thing now?”
She smiled. “Something small?”
“Something big. My nose. Can you make it smaller or, at least, not have a bump on it?”
She laughed. “Funny how society stereotypes witches as having long noses. In fact, it’s the first thing most witches would change.”
I noticed her nose. It was adorable, tiny, and turned up.
“Very well,” she said. “Close your eyes. It will only be a moment.”
I closed them. Around me, I heard the wind pick up, felt the dirt and rocks pelting my ankles. I wondered what she would do to my nose and, for the first time, I wondered what she could do. Make me even uglier? How could I trust someone I’d never seen before?
And yet, I knew I had nothing to lose. Still, I held my arms around myself, shivering in anticipation and maybe fear.
A moment later, she said, “Okay.”
I opened my eyes. She was holding the mirror toward me. I stared at it.
It was my face, still my face, ugly, pale, blotchy, chinless. I still had no eyelashes and horrible hair. No one would notice the difference.
But there was a difference. The bump on my nose was gone.
“Oh.” I turned sideways to admire it. “Oh, thank you. Thank you.”
“Now do you trust me enough to come back tomorrow?”
I nodded. I still held the mirror in my hand, not wanting to stop looking at it. Finally, I handed it back to Kendra.
She smiled. “Power can be a wonderful thing, Violet, a wonderful, terrible thing.”
I was still thinking about the mirror, about me, my face. I wanted to ask her how it could be terrible. But, when I looked up, she was gone.
I thought about power. A chill ripped through me.
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5
When I found Mom, she was plucking her eyebrows. “Hello, Mommy.”
She barely looked up. “Hello.”
I just stood there. I wanted to see if she’d notice a difference. But she still didn’t look. She plucked one hair, then searched for her next victim. Just when I thought she’d forgotten I was there, she said, “Violet?”
“Yes?”
She plucked another hair, still not looking up.
“You’d tell me if I had hairs on my chin, wouldn’t you?”
I had to smile. My mother would never, in a million years, have a hair on her chin. A chin hair would be a flaw, and my mother was flawless. She didn’t even have freckles. Not one.
I must have taken too long to answer because she said, “Oh, my GOD! I already have them, don’t I? You’ve noticed, and you haven’t told me. Violet, what is the point of even having a daughter if she doesn’t tell you about your chin hairs?”
She abandoned her eyebrows and started searching her chin, positioning it in front of the mirror and rolling her eyes down to try and look. Well, that just summed up our relationship. I wanted to let her suffer, but I also wanted her to look at me, instead of her chin, so I said, ??
?No, Mom, of course you don’t have chin hairs . . . that I’ve noticed anyway.”
I had to add that last.
“Are you sure? Can you look? Because I was talking to Marge Holcomb today, and since she’s so tall, I was looking right at her chin, and you’ll never guess what I saw there.”
“A chin hair?”
“Haha. No. Three chin hairs. Three! That was all I could look at. I felt terrible for her.” She laughed, the sound of a breaking mirror. “I would die if anyone looked at me and saw chin hairs.” She laughed again.
“You’re lucky you’re not that tall.”
“I am . . . not.” Still, she searched her chin. “That’s not the point, Violet. The point is, I shouldn’t have any. Do you know how hard it is to see your chin? I hate getting old.”
She still hadn’t looked at my face. Unbelievable. “I don’t think you have any. Want me to look?”
“Would you?” She broke into a smile, and like when I was a kid, it made me happy, so happy. My mother was smiling at me.
When I was little, I used to watch her get dressed to go on dates. She had the most beautiful clothes, nothing like other mothers. Silk blouses in jewel colors and strapless gowns like Vanna White on Wheel of Fortune. After she left, when the babysitter thought I was in bed, I’d sneak into my mother’s closet and try everything on, clothes, shoes, jewelry, makeup, always arranging it back very carefully as if it were a booby trap she’d set to catch me in the crime of pretending to be her.
Sometimes, when she was home, I’d ask to try the things she used, the powders and creams that widened her eyes, blackened her lashes, and made her so pretty. I thought if I could look like her, she would love me, and maybe she would have—if I’d looked like her.
But I never did.