Free Girl's Guide to Witchcraft by Mindy Klasky Page B

mother had a drug problem. She stayed away from the stuff while she was pregnant—that’s how much she loved you. But after you were born…And when your father left…”
    “So he left, too? He wasn’t in the car crash?”
    “There wasn’t any car crash, Jane.” Gran shook her head. “There was never any car crash. No one died. I’ve sent your mother letters through the years, told her how you’re doing. She’s asked to meet you now. She’s ready.”
    She was ready? Well, that didn’t mean that I was.
    I’d gotten used to having no mother a long time ago. All those Mother’s Day art projects in school, all those parent-teacher conferences where I had to explain to the other kids why my grandmother was there instead of my mother and father. I’d filled out endless forms, striking out parent and writing in guardian.
    But now, to find out that it was all a lie…And my own grandmother was the biggest liar of all….
    I stood up very carefully, grateful that I had stuck to pear oolong and forgone the champagne that had been an option on the menu. “The valet will get your car for you, Gran.”
    “Where are you going, dear?”
    “Home.” Away from here. To a cottage filled with witches’ books. To my gay feline familiar. To the colonial dresses that had become my new uniform. To the sudden wreck of my life.
    “At least let me drive you there.” Gran reached for her handbag.
    “I’d rather walk,” I said. “I need some fresh air.”
    I heard Gran call the waiter. I heard her start to negotiate paying for our treats. I heard her call out, “Jane, you promised!” She was torn, frantic.
    I only started to cry after I left the hotel, pounding the heels of my black suede pumps against the sidewalk.

7
     
    The yoga instructor spoke in a voice that she meant to be soothing: “Remember, Downward-Facing Dog is your friend. Ease into the stretch. Push your heels toward the floor. This pose is restful. Soothing. Relaxing.”
    Relaxing, my ass. My arms trembled, and my hamstrings felt like they were roasting in one of Melissa’s ovens. I glanced over at my supposed best friend who was gazing at a point on her yoga mat, blissed out in the perfection of her pose.
    The yoga instructor said, “All right, now. Hop your legs up to your hands. Hop! ”
    Yeah, right. Somewhere on her mantle, Gran has a trophy that I won for Best Hopper, when I was in preschool. My life as a bunny was long over. I straggled my right foot forward and tried to look jaunty as I dragged my left one into alignment.
    “Let’s move into Warrior I,” the instructor said, as if she honestly believed I had all the position names memorized. I sneaked a look at Melissa to figure out what we were supposed to do, and I spread my legs into the expected triangle. As the instructor recited the rest of the exercise, I let my mind drift.
    My mother was still alive. My mother. The woman that I thought had loved me. She was alive and well and could have come back to me at any moment, at any point in the twenty-five years that had passed since she walked away.
    And now she wanted to see me.
    I kept replaying my conversation with Gran in my head. I heard the words, over and over, like an old vinyl album skipping and repeating.
    What had Gran been thinking? Had she realized how shocked I would be? She must have—that was why she’d staged the afternoon tea. She had wanted me in a public place, a place where I couldn’t throw a tantrum, where I couldn’t say words that I might later regret.
    Even as I tried to build the case against her in my mind, I knew that I wasn’t being fair. She was my Gran. She loved me. She had taken me to the Four Seasons because she wanted her revelation to be special, to be happy.
    My mother was still alive. My mother.
    “Jane,” the yoga instructor said. “Raise your right arm. Look out over your fingertips. Flex your legs more. Activate your right leg.”
    I gritted my teeth and squatted lower, but the motion proved too