The Jodi Picoult Collection Read online

  “It makes no sense. What’s a negative y, anyway?”

  Thomas laughed. “A why not.”

  Chelsea smiled at him. On the screen, the same sleazy guy was slapping a girl across the face. INAPPROPRIATE. “Does he think we’re morons?” she whispered.

  “Uh . . . yes.”

  “I heard he used to live on a commune in Vermont. And that he screwed sheep.”

  Thomas glanced at the guidance counselor’s Mexican poncho and his straggly gray ponytail. “Well, at least he’s qualified to teach us about being assaulted from behind.”

  Chelsea giggled. The next slide clicked into place: the girl and the blond boy with his arm slung over her shoulder. But to Thomas, it looked like the boy’s fingers were getting awfully close to copping a feel. “A trick question,” he murmured.

  “Look at her face,” Chelsea said. “She wants it.”

  “Appropriate,” Mr. Wood announced.

  Thomas shook his head. “Bad call.”

  “Obviously, you need some extra help here. A little tutorial.”

  “With Wood? Thanks—I don’t think so.”

  “With me,” Chelsea said, and just like that, Thomas couldn’t breathe. She snaked her arm over the algebra book until her hand was touching his ribs. Was she thinking how skinny he was? How easy it was to string along a loser?

  She pinched him, hard. “Ow!”

  Several heads turned. But by then, Chelsea’s hands were folded in her lap and she was staring demurely at the screen.

  “Inappropriate,” she mouthed silently.

  Thomas rubbed his hand over his side. Shit, she’d probably given him a bruise. Suddenly her fingers slipped over his, weaving, until their two hands were clasped. Thomas stared, speechless at the sight of his own skin flush against an angel’s.

  Reluctantly, he met her gaze, certain she would be laughing at him. But she was dead serious, her cheeks bright as poppies. “Appropriate.”

  He swallowed. “Really?”

  Chelsea nodded and did not pull away.

  Thomas was certain the room was going to come crashing in on him, or that his alarm clock would ring out at any moment. But he could feel the pressure of Chelsea’s palm against his own, and it was as real as the blood speeding through his heart. “I think I get it now,” he said softly.

  Chelsea smiled, a dimple appearing in one cheek, an invitation. “It’s about time.”

  “Do I know astral projection?” Starshine said, the silver bells of her earrings swinging. “Yes. Will I teach you? Not a chance.”

  “I can do it,” Gilly insisted. “I know I can.”

  “I never said you couldn’t.” The older woman sat down on one of the rocking chairs in the Wiccan Read, stroking the cat that leaped into her lap. “But if you’re looking for a psychic vision, you can get the same effect from trance induction. On the other hand, if you’re just looking to get high, try your local dealer.”

  Gillian couldn’t tell Starshine that what she wanted most was to fly—to leave her body behind and to live in her mind. She was destined for more than this insignificant town, she just knew it, and she couldn’t even look forward to college providing a portal out, because her father would never let her move that far away. In Gilly’s mind, that meant taking matters into her own hands. But none of the books at the Wiccan Read held the old recipe for witches’ flying ointment, the herbal oil that had produced such startling psychedelic effects in the Middle Ages that witches who applied it to their foreheads believed they could soar. The newer recipes were safer, more politically correct: a mishmash of chimney soot and mugwort and benzoin. In other words, a poor substitute.

  Starshine looked at the girl’s stubborn face and sighed. “No one makes astral projection ointment anymore. The recipe called for the fat of an unbaptized infant, for goodness’ sake. You can’t get that at the supermarket deli counter.”

  Gilly thrust out her chin. “That wasn’t the active ingredient.”

  “Ah, I forget who I’m talking to . . . the pharmaceuticals heiress. No, it wasn’t. I believe the effect was brought on by tripping on hashish and belladonna—neither of which I sell, because the first will land you in jail and the second can land you in a coma. It just isn’t safe, honey.”

  At the girl’s crestfallen expression, Starshine squeezed her hand. “Why not concentrate on Beltane, instead? It’s right around the corner, and it’s such a wonderful sabbat to celebrate. Sensuality and sex, and the earth coming to life again.” She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. “There is nothing like leaping naked over a bonfire.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Well, except maybe for a handfasting ceremony. I did that one Beltane, you know, when I wasn’t much older than you.”

  “Handfasting?”

  “A trial marriage. For a year and a day. A test period, if you will, before the final commitment.”

  “What happened after that?”

  “After a year I chose to go my separate way. But that Beltane . . . oh, we danced barefoot with my coven and wove the maypole, and then the two of us celebrated the Great Rite like the God and Goddess right there in the meadow.”

  Gilly’s eyes widened. “You had sex right in front of everyone else?”

  “Guess so, because I still remember it. On Beltane, the first thing to go are your inhibitions.” She began to move around the tiny shop, plucking herbs and dried flowers off the cluttered shelves. “Here. Use primrose and St.-John’s-wort, cowslip and rosemary, some bloodstone on your altar. Courage, Gillian. Beltane’s all about filling your soul with the courage to do the things you might not otherwise be able to do.”

  Gillian took the collection from Starshine’s hands. Courage. If she couldn’t fly, maybe this would be the next best thing.

  “Figures,” Delilah said, shaking her head. “First time I let you behind the stove and you make a mess of it.”

  Jack grimaced and tried to scrape the worst of the spaghetti sauce off his clothing. Okay, so it hadn’t been brilliant to leave the vat sitting on the edge of the cold table while he cleared a spot on the stove for it to heat. Now that it had fallen and splattered everywhere, he was going to have to make another pot from scratch, because Delilah had a thing about using canned sauce for her pasta dishes. “We don’t have any more tomatoes,” she said, handing Jack another clean dishrag.

  “Good thing you’ve got me to go get some, then,” he said without missing a beat.

  Addie walked into the kitchen to hand Delilah an order. “What happened to you?” she asked, glancing at Jack.

  “He got on the wrong side of a pot of sauce. I’m sending him out for fresh produce,” Delilah said.

  “Better change first. People are going to think you’ve been gut-shot.”

  Jack didn’t answer, just huffed his way up the set of stairs that led from the kitchen to Roy’s apartment. In his bedroom, he bent down to retrieve a clean shirt from his bottom drawer. Suddenly, above him, the window exploded.

  Jack flattened himself on the carpet, aware of all the places his hands were being cut as they pressed against shards of glass. Heart pounding, he cautiously got to his feet and looked out the broken pane.

  He smelled the smoke first. The brick had landed on the carpet, and the flaming newspaper it was wrapped in had already started to burn. “Fire,” Jack whispered hoarsely. Then he lifted his head, and bellowed. “Fire!”

  Addie was the first one into the room, holding the extinguisher they kept next to the stove. She sprayed the foam all over the flames, all over Jack’s feet. By the time Jack gathered his wits, Roy and Delilah had crowded into the doorway of the room, too. “What the hell did you do?” Roy demanded.

  Addie reached into the foam and pulled out the thick brick, still wrapped with a rope and some residual paper. “Jack didn’t do anything. Someone did it to him.”

  “Better call Charlie Saxton,” Delilah said.

  “No.” This, flat, from Jack. “What if I hadn’t been here? What if we were all worki