"And my skin cleared up," I added.
"Wait, weren't your eyes brown before?"
"You're very observant, Ms. Z. You know, I've always really liked that about you," I said, feeling extra hyper after my run-in with The Elite. "So, what do you think of my makeover?"
"Makeover?"
"Yeah," I said, standing up and slowly turning around so she could get the full effect.
Ms. Zia swallowed hard and then leaned in closer to study me. "You're like . . . a whole new person."
"I know! Isn't it great?"
But instead of getting the same level of enthusiasm back, my question was met with silence. After a few awkward seconds, Ms. Z. seemed to gather herself and then cleared her throat.
"You look . . . different."
"Good different?" I asked, giving her a chance to react more like I'd been expecting her to.
She hesitated before answering.
"Different different."
When she saw my face fall, she got up from her chair and came around her desk to sit down next to me. "I didn't mean it that way. You look great, Brooklyn, it's just-I thought you looked pretty great the other way too. What's with the extreme makeover? Is everything okay?"
"Everything's pretty freaking awesome," I said, still riding high after my encounter with the upper crust. "I was just tired of being the me that nobody knew. I wanted to look back on my high school experience and actually be able to say that I experienced it. Right now I'm just . . . existing. And I'm over it."
"Brooklyn . . ."
"Look, Ms. Zia, I know what you're going to say. High school isn't everything. And yeah, okay, maybe it's not. Maybe I won't even care about any of this a few years from now. But for once I want proof that I was here. I don't want people to look at my picture in the yearbook and wonder, who is that girl?"
"But do you really want to do that as somebody else?"
Now I was starting to get annoyed. This was possibly one of the most significant experiences in my life so far, and she was taking all the fun out of it. Not that I thought she was doing it on purpose, but still, the line of questioning felt a bit harsh.
"How is this any different from you working out to stay in shape or getting your hair dyed? Why is it okay for everyone else to take steps to improve themselves, but I get the third degree when I do it?"
"Calm down, Brooklyn. I'm not trying to upset you, I just want to make sure you've thought about this. If any other student walked in here having changed their entire appearance, I'd be asking them these questions too. Just because we're closer than I might be with other students doesn't mean I'm going to sugarcoat things for you. In fact, I've always been honest with you."
"Yeah, sometimes a little too honest," I muttered.
"It's just, you know about my past. . . . I'm hoping you can learn from my mistakes instead of making your own."
"I know, Ms. Z., but you think you're trying to shield me from the potential downside of high school? Um, sorry. Been there, experienced that," I retorted. Seeing her face grow serious, I tried to calm down. "Look, I just want to be happy, and I wasn't before. I wish I was. I wish the old me was enough. I wish there were more people in this school who were like you, but there's not."
We'd had this conversation so many times before that I was beginning to feel like a broken record. And because Ms. Z. was the only person in my life who I could confide in like this, she also ended up being the one who was always pushing back and challenging me.
Ms. Zia looked at me and bit her lip as she took in what I was saying. "And you think this will make you happy?"
"It already has," I said, thinking about my run-in with The Elite.
After another long look and an even longer sigh, she patted me on the arm. "Then I'm here to support you," she said. She forced a smile on her pretty face.
"Well, I guess I should head to my locker before lunch is over, then," I said, getting up and gathering my things. "See you tomorrow?"
"Sure, Brooklyn," Ms. Zia answered, watching me move toward the door. "I'll see you tomorrow."
I'd barely gotten my foot out the door when I immediately collided with another body.
"Oh!" I said, looking up. When I saw that it was Asher, I couldn't seem to untangle my feet.
"Whoops," he said, placing his hands on both my arms to steady me. "Sorry about that."
I gave him a half smile, wondering whether he recognized me. Then he blinked in surprise and flashed me a smile of his own. "Wow. You look . . ."
Good? Amazing? Beautiful? Like the kind of girl you'd like to have as a girlfriend?
"Different," he finished after a long pause.
My smile disappeared again.
"Seriously?!" I took one last look at my biggest crush and then stormed off in the opposite direction.
"Sweetie! Can you come downstairs for a minute?"
My mom's voice drifted into my room as I clicked away on my computer. Given my new look, I decided it was time to update all my photos online so people would be able to find me if they were trying. I sat back and admired the self-portrait I'd taken with my phone.
It was perfect.
I'd pretty much avoided taking pictures of myself before, but now I got excited every time I took a snapshot. Each one seemed to be better than the last, and I wasn't even sitting there overanalyzing all the things I'd need to edit out later. Instead I'd spent the last hour trying to narrow down which shot I liked the best, and then how to crop it.
I was putting the finishing touches on my number one choice when my mom called out to me.
"Right now?" I asked.
"Yes, please," my dad answered.
I sighed and made a few hasty adjustments before hitting the publish button. Closing my laptop, I climbed off my bed and went downstairs. When I walked into the living room, my parents were sitting side by side on the couch, looking unusually serious. My stomach sank as I dreaded the conversation I knew was coming.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"Why don't you sit down, honey," my mom said, motioning to the love seat across from them.
"Is everything okay? You're kind of freaking me out."
"Brooklyn, we couldn't help but notice that you seem to have made some, er, changes to your appearance," my dad began.
"You're blond," my mom chimed in.
"And, well, we know that you just came into your powers, and while it's natural to want to experiment with things, we think you need to know that there are consequences to every spell that you do," Dad said.
My fear dissolved into relief, and then the relief turned into annoyance.
"This is because I changed my hair?" I asked incredulously.
"It's not just your hair," my mom said. "It's your eyes, your skin, your lips . . . I'm pretty sure you even made yourself taller. I barely recognize you anymore." As she finished, her eyes began to well up with tears.
I instantly felt guilty. I had no idea my parents were going to take the makeover so hard.
"Guys, I just wanted a little change. I'm sixteen now. This is what kids my age do! They change their appearance. They wear makeup. They dye their hair-usually crazier colors than this, I might add. I'm just trying something new. Trying to figure out who I am."
I didn't add that it was also so I could catch the attention of The Elite. I knew my parents wouldn't go for the changes if they were for anyone else but me. Even though I liked the new me, too, doing things to please other people was unacceptable in our household.
"Hey, at least I'm not getting tattoos or my tongue pierced," I added, cracking a joke to try and lighten the mood.
"It's not so much the changes you're making that we're worried about. We've read all the parenting books-we knew this would happen one day. It's how you're doing it that worries us."
I blinked at them. "What are you talking about?"
"We think you're using too much magic," my mom blurted out.
I glanced from my mom to my dad and then shook my head. "I've only done a few spells," I said, staring straight at them. "Look, you said that when I turned sixteen you would unbind my powers. I just thought that meant I could actually use them."
"And you can," my dad answered. "We just want you to practice responsibly."
"You think I'm irresponsible?" I asked slowly. "Because I did a few beauty spells?"
This was unbelievable.
"We just don't want you to use magic for everything. There's so much you can do without using spells and we don't want you to get used to taking shortcuts," he said. "Your magical abilities give you an advantage over nonpracticing people, and capitalizing on those abilities isn't exactly fair to them. It also turns a lot of unneeded attention onto you. We don't want you to start choosing magic over good, old-fashioned hard work and perseverance."
"But don't you think these gifts were given to us for a reason? Why would we have them if we weren't supposed to use them?" I questioned. I felt like we were speaking two different languages.
"Of course you can use them, Brooklyn. We just want you to use them wisely," my mom said. "History has shown that the more magic you use, the greater chance you have of people taking notice. And when that happens-well, it can be bad for everyone involved."
"What are you talking about?"
My parents looked at each other and then my mom pulled out the same book that she'd been holding the night of my unbinding and stroked it gently. "Brooklyn, we know we don't talk much about our magical history, but we think it's time you learned about your ancestors and the . . . difficulties . . . that fell upon them."
Mom was right about that. Trying to get my parents to discuss our family and their ties to witchcraft was like pulling teeth. Every time I'd asked a question in the past, they'd either changed the subject or told me I wasn't old enough to hear it. It used to frustrate me to no end, because I thought they were just treating me like a kid. But now it seemed as if their motives might have been more complicated than that.
"How much do you know about the Salem witch trials, Brooklyn?" she asked me.
I wasn't sure where this was going but didn't bother saying so. The Salem witch trials had been too big a topic to ignore while I was growing up, because it was one of the only things my parents had shared with me concerning the witching world. Anything my parents had conveniently left out, I'd been able to learn from other twitches online who studied witch history in their coven classes.
"I only know what you've told me and what I've been able to find on the Internet," I said. They nodded for me to continue, and I racked my brain for the details. To placate my parents, I regurgitated what I knew about this infamous time in our history. "Um, sometime in the late 1600s, a whole bunch of people in colonial Massachusetts were accused of practicing witchcraft. In the end, around twenty people were killed for allegedly being witches. Since then they've been exonerated to the nonwitching world, but we know from our own magical history that some of those who were killed actually were witches. Several were innocent bystanders."
"Correct. And do you know what caused the hysteria in the first place?" I shook my head no. "Well, it all started when Samuel Parris, a member of the Cleri coven, became hungry for power. He wasn't the most powerful of the group-that was Bridget Bishop-but he had aspirations to make the Cleri the most prominent coven in the witching world. When he realized that Bridget and most of the other Cleri didn't feel the same way, he betrayed them by starting the rumor that they-and several other people in the town-were practicing witchcraft."
"Why would he do that? Especially when it could come back to bite him in the-"
"As far as we know, Samuel Parris targeted the witches in the group that he knew wouldn't fall in line with him. And he knew that if he just got the rumors started, the townspeople would take care of the rest," she said. "You see, sweetie, power can be dangerous if put in the wrong hands."
"Wait-let me get this straight. You think I'm gonna go all power crazy like that jerk-wad Parris and sell other witches out?" I was starting to become a bit hysterical, but could you blame me? From the sound of it, my own parents were comparing me to a murderous, lying psycho. I couldn't help but be hurt. "Geez, I've had my powers for, like, a day, and you've already got me starting the next witch trials? Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"That's not it at all," Dad cut in. "You're missing the point of the story. Samuel wanted the power so badly that he was willing to do anything to get it. We're just saying that the more you use your powers, the more attention you'll draw to yourself. And the more attention you draw to yourself, the more dangerous things can get. Not everyone has a heart like yours. And people can still be very afraid of things they don't understand."
"It's been over four hundred years since the Salem witch trials. Don't you think people have evolved a little? I mean, think of how popular vampires, werewolves, and zombies are nowadays. You don't think people would be psyched to find out there are actual witches out there? No way would people have the same reaction today that they did back then."
My parents shot each other a look.
"Did Grandma Sparks ever talk to you about her sister Evelyn?" Dad asked. As if on cue, Mom opened the book that was lying on her lap and then passed it over to me. The page was full of photos, all black-and-white and old-looking. The first showed two kids, both in little white dresses, bangs pulled back on top of their heads. The taller of the two was smiling, but the other wore a frown.
The progression of pictures showed the two girls growing up. One captured the younger child making a funny face at the camera while her sister's back was turned. Another showed the two facing each other, arms outstretched and appearing to concentrate. I had a sneaking suspicion the camera had caught them midspell in that one. The last was of both of the girls, just a little bit older, hugging each other tightly.
I shook my head. "I didn't know Grandma had a sister," I said quietly, continuing to study the pages. "Why didn't she say anything?"
My dad cleared his throat and fidgeted in his seat. "Well, I imagine talking about Evelyn made her a bit . . . sad," he said finally. "See, Evelyn was younger than Grandma Sparks by several years, but she was always the more outgoing of the two of them. She had big dreams-plans to go out to Hollywood one day-and she wasn't one to shy away from a challenge."
"She sounds pretty cool," I said, smiling as I turned to a picture of Evelyn blowing a kiss to the camera.
"You're actually like her in a lot of ways," he said. By the tone of his voice, it didn't seem that he was all too happy about this. "Evelyn adored magic. She loved casting and wasn't ashamed of it. She thought spells should be used for just about everything, even if it was something simple she could have done herself. But the ease with which she used magic made her careless, and before long, she was doing spells in public."
"Until finally, one day, someone caught her," he said sadly.
"What happened?" I was almost scared to hear the rest of the story, but at this point, I was totally sucked in.
"She must have thought no one was watching when she did the summoning spell that day, but she was wrong. Someone was watching. A reporter, and he wanted to expose Evelyn to the world. When he confronted her, she realized what she'd done and tried to dissuade him. She told him he was seeing things. That he needed a good night's sleep. That it was just a trick of the light. But he wasn't a fool. He knew what he'd seen and he knew that breaking the news that magic actually existed would change his life.
"Evelyn managed to get away from the reporter and fled in her car, but he eventually caught up with her. He pulled up next to her in his car, honking his horn and swerving to try and get her to stop and talk to him, but she refused. Finally, the reporter came up with a plan. He figured that if she really was a witch, he could push her off the side of the road and she would have to perform another spell in order to save herself. And when she did that, he would have proof of her abilities and then would have something to go to his editor with.
"So he sideswiped her car. The first time, Evelyn managed to swerve and missed the brunt of the impact, but when he did it again, the road had narrowed and there was nowhere for her to go. This time, the car broke through the guardrail and careened down an embankment before slamming into a tree. The reporter grabbed the bulky video camera that he kept in the trunk of his car at all times and rushed down the hill to the car, slipping and sliding the whole way. When he finally got to the bottom, the car had caught on fire and the flames were spreading quickly. He peered through the fumes and saw Evelyn just waking up. Her head was bleeding and she seemed dazed. She began to panic, realizing what had happened, and pulled at her door and seat belt to no avail. The guy yelled at her to use her magic to get out, but by this time she was too hysterical to listen. Instead, she just kept trying to claw her way out. Finally, the two locked eyes, him behind his camera and her behind the flames and glass. There was a moment on the film where it looked like Evelyn was about to do something. Say something. A spell most likely. But it was too late. As they sat there looking at each other, the car blew up."
Something wet hit my hand and I looked down. I hadn't even realized I'd been crying. I wiped my face hastily and waited on the rest of the story.
"So, she died? All because of some guy's career?" I asked, disgusted.
"Power can drive even the sanest person to do insane things. It's an incredible motivator," my mom said. I saw that her eyes were red and gave her a sympathetic look.
"How do we know all of this?"
"Well, after Evelyn's death, the reporter went on trial for her murder and that's what came out during the case. They even used the footage he'd taken that day as evidence. Grandma Sparks and the rest of the family were there and, based on what they knew about Evelyn, realized their biggest fear had come to fruition."
"What happened to the reporter?" I asked, balling up my fists. "I hope he got what was coming to him."
"Well, considering his whole defense was built on the fact that he claimed Evelyn to be a witch, they found him incompetent to stand trial and sent him away to spend the rest of his life in a mental health facility. From what we know, he stayed there until he died, living with what he did that day and being tormented by the fact that nobody believed him."
We sat there in silence for a few minutes as the story hit each of us differently. Finally I spoke. "Good. I'm glad he suffered. What he did was horrible and irresponsible and-"