Blackwood: A Hexed Story

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2015 by Michelle Krys

  Cover art copyright © Shutterstock

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

  Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Random House LLC.

  randomhouse.com/teens

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  eBook ISBN 9780449816561

  First Delacorte Press Ebook Edition 2015

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

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  a

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  BLACKWOOD: A Hexed Story

  Excerpt from Hexed

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  About the Author

  I wake to the sound of dishes clattering, the smell of fresh-brewed coffee heavy in the air. I clumsily smack my hand around on the bedside table until I find my glasses, then push them up on my nose. Dust motes do lazy swirls in the pale light filtering through my blinds. The clock reads 6:28 a.m.

  It’s way too early for this.

  Groaning, I kick off the sheets and swing my legs over the side of the bed. On cue, O’Haira appears at my feet, a puff of orange fur mewling and circling between my legs. I scratch her head and she lets out a satisfied purr.

  —

  “You’re up early. Did I wake you?” Mom calls as I descend the stairs.

  Yes.

  “No, I was already getting up.” I zombie-shuffle to the kitchen table and fall into the nearest chair, catching my head in my hands.

  Mom’s washing dishes at the sink with the tap running at full blast. She’s already wearing the uniform for her job at the Café 50s diner in downtown Hollywood—a red and white pin-striped dress with a ruffled skirt, puffed sleeves, and built-in white apron—and her hair is pulled back into a ponytail of curls at the nape of her neck, a few escaped tendrils hanging loose around her jaw.

  “Coffee?” she calls over. “There’s a half a pot, and I’m just going to dump it out otherwise.”

  “Maybe later.”

  She lets out a lazy yawn as she absently looks out the window. “So, what’s new with Indigo? Haven’t seen her around in ages.”

  “She lives next door,” I point out.

  “You know what I mean.”

  I blow out a breath that ruffles my bangs.

  Indie and I used to be thick as thieves. Then Bianca Cavanaugh came into the picture. Long story short? Indie and Bianca became popular, and I…didn’t. They joined the cheerleading squad, while I joined band. Their figures filled out and they wore stylish clothes and expensive makeup, while I wore encyclopedia-thick glasses and preferred my worn-in Chucks to heels.

  According to the leader of the Bitch Brigade, Indie “can’t afford” to hang out with someone like me. That’s an actual quote. Bianca commands and everyone listens.

  “Indie’s too cool for me now, Mom,” I say.

  Mom clucks her tongue as she sets her coffee mug upside down on the rack to dry. “Don’t say that, sweetie.”

  “Well, it’s true. Hanging out with me is ‘bad for her reputation,’ ” I say, doing air quotes.

  “She said that?” Mom asks.

  “Bianca did.”

  Mom shakes her head as she dries her hands on a dish towel, turning to face me. “Have you tried talking to her about it?”

  “Of course I have! Well, I mean, not exactly. I try talking to her all the time, but she’s always with Bianca or some other robot cheerleader.” I sigh. “It’s just so frustrating. It’s like, I can tell the old Indie is in there, but they’re holding her hostage or something.”

  Mom crosses her arms, her brow creased in thought. I can tell she’s working up to a lecture, but I don’t mind. Maybe that’s actually why I got up at 6:28 a.m.

  “What if you got her alone?” Mom suggests. “She might be more willing to listen that way.”

  That would be a great idea, if she didn’t literally run at the mere sight of me.

  I just shake my head.

  “You know,” Mom continues after another pause, “my best friend and I grew apart in high school too.”

  Here it comes. I sit up eagerly, desperate for her words of wisdom. Her eyes take on a faraway look.

  “Danica Baxter,” she says. “We were best friends from the time we were in diapers, completely attached at the hip. Then, sophomore year, she started dating this really popular guy—captain of the lacrosse team. Total jerk.” She shakes her head. “Anyway, all of a sudden she was too busy for me. I was really lonely for a while, so I ended up joining the soccer team just for something to do—that’s how I met Lizzie. And Danica ended up marrying the lacrosse guy. So you see, in the end, growing apart was good for the both of us.”

  Mom’s quiet a moment, waiting for me to answer.

  “Who’s Lizzie?” I finally ask.

  “My best friend in high school. We went our separate ways in college.” Her lips turn down in a frown. “I guess that wasn’t a great story after all.”

  I offer Mom a wan smile.

  “It’ll all work out, honey,” she says gently. “That Jessie girl seems really nice.”

  “Yeah…”

  “Oh, hey! Don’t forget I have that meeting after work, so you’ll have to take the bus home.”

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  “Good.” Mom crosses the room and kisses my forehead, then ruffles my hair so that it sticks up at crazy angles. “And you’re not a loser to me, okay? You’re the coolest girl I know.”

  I roll my eyes, though I’m smiling genuinely now.

  “All right, I’ve got to get going or I’ll be late.” She snatches her purse from the hook near the door and then she’s off to work. O’Haira takes up her mewling again, banging her head into me until I pat my legs. She hops up, her gentle purring a vibration on my lap.

  I pet her absently, thinking about what Mom said. A part of me knows she’s right, that I should just let Indie go already, but I can’t help the part of me that still holds on to hope I can save her: the girl who made wings out of paper taped to her arms and convinced me to try “flying” off the back porch with limited success. The girl who helped me hide in the laundry after Dad found the results of my art on the living room wall. The girl with the snarky sense of humor, who constantly made me laugh with her outrageous comments.

  I’m going to give this one last shot. If it doesn’t work…well, then

  I’ll give up.

  Until then, Operation Save Indie is going into effect.

  —

  An hour and a half later, the bus squeaks to a stop in front of Fairfield High. The school is built low to the ground, except for a big rotunda that rises from its center, and is spread out across half a city block. The place is swarming with students talking in clumps on the grassy quad.

  I shoulder my backpack and violin case before filing off, scanning the property for Indie’s big blond curls.

  The sun is high over top of the school’s rippled red roof, the sky a perfect, cloudless blue. It’s not even nine in the morning, but the air is already warm with the promise of yet another unseasonably hot September day.

  I’m still looking for Indie when somethi
ng at the corner of the property catches my eye.

  A guy in a leather jacket leans casually against the white stucco side of the school, partially hidden in the shadow of a huge sycamore. Though he’s got his hands jammed in the pockets of his black pants, his narrowed eyes watch the students moving toward the front door with a little too much interest, as if he were ready to pounce. I don’t know who he is or what he’s doing at my school, but the sight of him makes me go cold inside, a rash of goose bumps flaring up on my arms.

  He looks at me. I gasp, momentarily shocked into stillness.

  And then sense comes back and I hike my bag up my shoulder, hurrying up the steps. I don’t look back, but I swear I can I feel his eyes follow me all the way to the door.

  It’s easy to forget about the strange guy once I get inside. The first bell hasn’t even rung yet and already the place is so uncomfortably packed with students that I have to elbow my way through kids laughing and talking in big groups all down the hall. I push toward my locker, still scanning for Indie, even though there isn’t really time before class for this type of intervention.

  “Paige!”

  Jessie Colburn pops up beside me, her books pressed against her chest.

  Jessie is a transfer student who just moved to Los Angeles from Nebraska after her dad got a job doing film production for Universal Studios. With her glossy red hair, perfect alabaster skin, and rosebud mouth, she could easily become part of the Pretty People Club, but for some inexplicable reason she hangs out with me. I keep waiting for her to realize I’m a loser and ditch me, but it’s already halfway through September and so far that hasn’t happened.

  “Hey, Jess. What’s up?”

  “Ugh, I stayed up until, like, one o’clock watching The Vampire Diaries when I should have been studying for the history test. This is going to be ugly.”

  I laugh. “I’m sure you’ll do fine, Miss 4.0 Average.”

  “Seriously, this time I think I’ll be lucky if I get a C.”

  I roll my eyes. Jessie is this total brainiac who never studies and still gets all As. I’d think it was annoying if she weren’t so damn nice. It’s impossible to dislike her.

  “What’d you do last night?” she asks.

  “Nothing interesting. Read a book.”

  “Oh yeah? What?”

  “It’s this really cool book about…”

  My words stutter to a halt when I spot He-Who-Can’t-Be-Named, play tackling one of the other football players against a locker while a half-dozen mindless cheerleaders watch on. He’s wearing a white T-shirt that stretches tight against his broad chest and a letterman’s jacket that’s faded on the elbows. His bright red hair sticks up in adorable tufts all over his head, and his freckled cheeks are rosy from the workout.

  Jessie clears her throat, a mischievous smile on her face. “Jarrod’s looking cute today, don’t you think?”

  “What? Oh, sure…if you go for that sort of thing.”

  She raises an eyebrow at me.

  As if on cue, Jarrod looks over and gives me a little grin that makes my cheeks burst into flames. I smile back at him, this shy smile I didn’t even know I was capable of.

  Jarrod isn’t what you would call traditionally good-looking. He’s got an interesting-shaped nose, his eyes are just a little bit too close together, and he’s the type of tall that’s a bit oafish, like he doesn’t know what to do with all those extra inches. But despite all that, my stomach goes into Cirque du Soleil mode at the mere sight of him.

  “Care to tell me what’s going on?” Jessie asks.

  “Nothing,” I insist, but it sounds like a lie even to me.

  “Please,” Jessie says. “You guys were like, totally eyeball-screwing each other just now.”

  I bark a laugh. “Please, we were so not ‘eyeball-screwing’ each other, whatever that means.” Were we eyeball-screwing each other?

  “You were biting your lip,” she points out.

  “I was?”

  “Yep.”

  Ugh. How mortifying.

  “So what’s this about? Do you like him like him or what?” she asks.

  “No, it’s just…”

  Just what?

  I don’t know how it all happened. I signed up to tutor students for extra credit in the summer. When I walked into the library and saw Jarrod waiting for me, I almost turned right back around. Hanging out with Bianca’s crowd? So not high on my list of priorities. Teaching algebra to the guy who blows spitballs during lessons seemed especially unappealing.

  But then, somewhere between sine and cosine, I discovered that Jarrod’s actually a really sweet guy. By our third meet-up, our chemistry was off the charts—math had never been so stimulating. I kept expecting him to make a move, ask me out or just do something, but he never did. In my mind, we had steamy makeout sessions on top of the copy machine in the library, but in reality, the closest we’d come was being huddled over the same textbook, our fingers “accidentally” brushing each other’s as we both went to flip a page.

  I glance over my shoulder and catch him looking at me again.

  “Look who it is!”

  Bianca’s voice stiffens my spine. She leans against a bank of lockers next to Jarrod, flanked on either side by Dumb Cheerleader A (aka Julia) and Dumb Cheerleader B (aka Thea). Her arms are crossed over her chest so that her already-huge boobs get pushed up together, her white-blond hair falling in glossy waves over her shoulders.

  “You know, someone should really stage an intervention for you,” she calls over. “Friends don’t let friends wear pinstriped shorts.”

  Julia and Thea burst into laughter. Jarrod ducks his head into his chest, but I can tell he’s chuckling too. Pinpricks of heat erupt across my cheeks.

  “Come on,” Jessie says, pulling my arm. “Don’t worry about them.”

  “Screw you, Bianca,” I spit, before letting Jessie pull me down the hall.

  —

  I’m already sitting in my seat near the front of the class when Jarrod walks into homeroom. I pull out my notebook and take fake interest in scrawling the date across the top of the page. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as he passes, but I refuse to look up or give him my usual smile. He takes a spot right behind me, and my chest tightens.

  I can feel his eyes on my neck, but I pointedly stare at the blackboard, waiting for class to start. A pen jabs into my back. Swallowing, I turn around and level him with a glare.

  “Yes?”

  He leans across the desk. “That was really mean, what Bianca said back there.”

  I search for something really witty to say that will put him in his place but come up woefully short. I settle on: “You have some really nice friends.”

  He winces. “They’re not so bad all the time.”

  I don’t respond, except to raise an eyebrow.

  “Okay, so some of them are pretty bad,” he admits.

  “So why do you hang out with them then? Why do you let them do that kind of stuff?”

  He opens and closes his mouth. I will him to say something great, something that will make this morning not matter so I don’t have to give him up too, but when the final bell rings and Mrs. Anderson starts taking attendance, I just turn around and face the blackboard.

  I can feel him watching me all through the class, and it makes every minute seem to stretch on forever. The longer I sit there, the more wound up I become, like a coil ready to spring at any moment. Finally, I can’t take it anymore, and stick my hand up in the air.

  “Yes, Miss Abernathy?” Mrs. Anderson says.

  “May I use the bathroom?”

  “Sure. Grab a hall pass. And don’t be too long.”

  I practically run to the front of the class, snagging one of the orange hall pass lanyards from the teacher’s desk.

  I feel better the minute I’ve escaped the stare burning a hole into the back of my neck. Not better better, as Jessie would say, but not like I’m going to vomit, so it’s a start.

  I’m not
eager to be back in class, so I walk slowly in the big blocks of sun coming through the high windows, taking my time as I amble down the empty hallway toward the girls’ restroom. I stop at the water fountain and take a lazy gulp, wiping my chin as I come up, then pad over to a corkboard set into a little alcove so I can read the poster tacked there.

  A Midsummer Knight’s Dream. October 13. Tickets only $25!

  I wonder if Jarrod is going to the homecoming dance….

  I can’t help imagining what it would be like if he asked me to go with him. I picture him pulling up in front of my house in his mom’s Chevy sedan. I wonder what he’d wear? Not black or blue, I think. Maybe a white tux that would make the red of his hair stand out and his eyes look impossibly blue.

  I sigh.

  Oh, who am I kidding? He’s probably going to ask one of the hot cheerleaders. Maybe Amy or Ashley, the brunette twins with the killer legs. Maybe even Thea, with her huge brown eyes and sheet of gorgeous, silky hair.

  The thought makes my chest ache—so much for leaving class so I wouldn’t feel sick thinking of him.

  I turn my back to the poster, and my breath hitches.

  A guy stands in the hallway. Not just any guy—the one in the leather jacket I saw outside the school this morning.

  He’s unnaturally tall, well over six feet, despite looking no more than a few years older than me. His dark hair falls in a tangle of waves to his jaw, and his leather jacket is pushed up to reveal colorful tattoos spreading up his right arm, his skin taut with lean muscle. When he turns just right, I see that his tattoos spill out of his jacket onto his neck.

  He stands in front of a bank of lockers down the hall, hunched over as he takes a combination lock into his hands, holding it almost reverently. His lips move as he mumbles something under his breath. He waves a palm in front of the lock.

  It clicks open.

  I gasp; then, realizing my mistake, I leap back into the alcove. My heart thumps hard behind my ears. How did he get the lock to open like that? He didn’t even spin the dial. I stand against the wall for a long minute, trying to slow my breathing and the frantic thump of my heart. But curiosity overwhelms me, and taking a breath for courage, I peer out.