Free Blackwood: A Hexed Story by Michelle Krys

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 sofrustrating. 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