Free Once a Witch by Carolyn MacCullough Page A

for the quiz we were having that week on ecosystems. Later, I tried not to strain my eyes for the telltale ladders of smoke that would signal the bonfire had started. Instead, I colored the photos of arid deserts in my textbook a vileshade of green, not caring that I was defacing a school textbook, and tried to block the sounds of chanting from my ears, even as my lips moved reflexively in the four prayers. In my mind's eye, I can still see the stain of color spreading from the tip of my marker across the porous page. I'd have to say that ranks as my second worst birthday, only just behind the year I turned eight.
    “I never went through those,” I point out, even though he knows this.
    “Neither did I,” Gabriel answers, and I blink in surprise.
    “You didn't? Why not?”
    “Oh yeah, my dad would have loved that shit” His voice is mocking.
    “Those were the years when my mom was pretending that we were actually normal people. The all-American family. We did normal Halloween things. My mom dressed up every year as a pumpkin or something equally stupid.” I try not to smile.
    “Not a witch?” Gabriel shakes his head.
    “Hell, no. Never that. That would be a little too close to home for my dad. No, I trick-or-treated until, like, thirteen, and then I went out with my friends and did the usual stuff–”
    “I've read about that,” I say wistfully.
    “Toilet-papering houses and shaving cream.”
    “Stealing candy from little kids is more like it. That and lighting dog shit on fire.”
    “Oh” I think about this for a few seconds.
    “That's lame. And disgusting.” Gabriel shrugs.
    “What can I say? I was thirteen.”
    “So your mom never told you about–”
    “She was weird about being Talented” He pauses, rubs one hand across the back of his neck.
    “She had this mini altar that she took down every day right before my dad came home. Dirt from the backyard, flower petals. A dish of water. You know the drill.” I nod.
    “Anyway, she still believed in everything, but it's like it went into hiding whenever my dad was there. This whole other person came out. And I could never figure out why.”
    “Why what?”
    “Why would she ever want to be with someone if she could only be a quarter of who she truly was in front of him? And I could never figure out why my dad accepted that–required that–from her. It's like being with someone and their arms or their legs are missing and you don't even notice. It was crazy” Gabriel shakes his head, then looks at me and grins.
    “Okay, that's probably more than you needed to hear.”
    “No, I . .” I adjust the strap of my sandal where it's pressing into the arch of my foot.
    “I like talking to you about this. It's… nice,” I finish lamely.
    “I never talk to anyone about their… Talent.”
    “Why not?” ”I. .”
    My fingers press into the worn spot on my skin until pain pricks across my nerve endings.
    “It hurts too much,” I say finally. I can't look at him as I continue.
    “I feel like my family tolerates me but that I'm a constant failure to them.
    “And instead of saying things like
    “You're not a failure” or
    “That's not true,” Gabriel says nothing at all but rests one hand on my arm. Heat pours through my skin.
    “Things… weren't supposed to be like this,” I add. We're quiet for a while, listening to the house creak around us.
    “I'm sorry we moved away,” Gabriel says. And then his hand tightens on my arm until I look at him.
    “Why didn't you write me back?” he asks.
    “I… felt weird” Like you wouldn't like me anymore.
    “Even with me?” I shrug.
    “Even with you.” Our faces are close enough for me to observe that his eyes are not as dark as they first seem. Instead, there are tiny flecks of green radiating from his irises. And then the grandfather clock in the hall strikes the half hour and I'm jolted back to what I need to be jolted back to.
    “Okay, what if I want to find that object there?” I say and