I Put a Spell on You

1

PIPER

There are three certainties in my life:

1. My cats will wake me up before sunrise.

2. My bangs will look bad the moment I try to force them into submission.

3. I will have to stay in Fableview from mid-January until Valentine's Day to help my family make this holiday season as memorable as Halloween is around here.

Mom moves to kiss my cheek right as I haul my suitcase out of her trunk, which results in the two of us bumping into each other as I thunk my most cherished belongings at her feet.

"I'll miss you," she says as she lassos me into a hug. My suitcase crowds the space between our legs, making this into more of a please-save-me-from-falling embrace than an I-hate-to-part-from-my-dear-daughter squeeze.

Once my feet are steady, I pull back so she can see my face, batting my eyelashes for maximum effect. "There is one way to solve that . . ."

"Piper Blake," she warns. She can act like she hates these protests all she wants, but she hasn't even bothered to hide the way she's smirking. "You have to be here for Love Month."

Love Month.

That's what we call it in Fableview, because Valentine's Day happens smack-dab in the middle of February. To maximize the celebration potential, Dad decided several years ago that we should kick off festivities early.

It's funny that my mom would say I have to be here when she's the one who always points out the terrible timing. According to her, everyone's still clutching their purse strings tighter after the winter holidays while clinging to the hope that they're going to stick with their overly strict New Year's resolutions. She doesn't believe this month should exist, but I'm somehow essential to the operation. Make it make sense!

"Don't you think Dad's shop gets a little too crowded this time of year, though?" I ask. "You know how much I love peace and quiet, and that's the last thing going on in Dad's life. Don't even get me started on this house." I gesture to its sunny yellow Victorian glory. "Francine is so cute, but she's so messy."

"Says the messiest kid I know," Mom says.

"Laura, I love you, but this false narrative cannot stand," I reply. "First of all, I am seventeen years old. We can't keep calling me a kid. Second, Francine is six. She's leaving markers without their caps and cracker crumbs on her mattress. Third, I'm not actually messy at all. Everything I have is organized in a way that makes perfect sense."

If you are me, that is. I just happen to be collecting things that look messy, like bundles of unique yarns or sewing patterns from the backs of old magazines that I can't possibly transport from home to home every other week.

Mom's still smirking.

"And finally," I continue, hunting for one more point to make on the fly, "you don't really know that many kids."

This gets an actual laugh out of her, the kind I hope might sway this jury of one in my favor. It's not that I don't want to be here for Love Month. I love Love Month. It's just complicated.

Mom starts fussing with my braid instead, using her palms to comb back the wispy pieces escaping above my ears. This is her switch-off ritual, one that she's done for as long as we've had this custody agreement. I'm way too old for this kind of primping now, but I still let her work, basking in the glow of her attention all the same.

She and I both know the real problem is the way my bangs have done their little cowlick thing in the center of my forehead, but she's smart enough to understand this is an unfixable plight-I inherited the cowlick from her, after all. Any attempt to tame it will remind me how misguided it was to get bangs in the first place, especially because they love to get tucked under my glasses whenever they grow out even the tiniest bit. While we share the same shade of red hair, she got bouncy curls to distract from all her hairline inconsistencies, and I got stick-straight strands that seek daily vengeance upon me.

When she's pleased with her adjustments, she pulls my suitcase up Dad's entry path, wheels hopscotching across the jagged brick.

"Are you solving this by coming in with me?" I ask. "Little Love Month-inspired family reunion for the three of us?"

"Yeah, I figured your dad and I could reminisce on all of our good times," Mom replies gamely. "Maybe split a plate of spaghetti, Lady and the Tramp style?"

It's probably not healthy that we joke about their divorce like this. It's still a major improvement to the way things were when they first separated eight years ago-blow-up fights and weekly custody trade-offs that had to be orchestrated with a mediator present. Custody is split evenly between both houses, with exceptions made for special occasions like Love Month and the monthlong vacation Mom and I take each summer.

I'm registered as a student in the Fableview school system, but I'm on a hybrid learning model. When I'm here, I go to school in person at Fableview High. When I'm with my mom, I'm learning online. It's a complicated setup that I've chosen to find flattering in the end. Both of my parents wanted to be around me as much as possible while wanting to be around each other not at all.

They say time heals all wounds, and while I don't think that's true-this wound is pretty gnarly if you look at it up close-we get good mileage out of admiring the wound from a safe distance. We do the usual trade-offs without fuss these days, and Mom and Dad have had at least three pleasant conversations in my presence. Still, I don't think anyone would trust the two of them alone in a room together.

"Excellent," I say. "That won't disturb his latest girlfriend at all."

Mom's smile falls.

She won't laugh with me over the parade of new girlfriends (and fiancées, and, yes, even another wife) Dad has had since their divorce. For some reason, I want her to find it amusing anyway. Maybe because she's the only person who actually knows both lives I live. I'm not Piper Blake the Fableview love witch to her, or Piper Blake the Scarlet Creek bookworm who likes to embroider her own clothes and has recently gotten into knitting. I'm just her daughter, passed back and forth between two drastically different lives on a schedule determined without my input, forced to accommodate everything-and everyone-along the way. If I can be a good sport about it all, can't she?

"Is his newest girlfriend already staying here?" Mom asks. She squints up at the third-story window that marks my dad's bedroom like she might find the new girlfriend peering down on us. Maybe she is. Some of Dad's girlfriends have definitely enjoyed casting foreboding glances from three stories up.

"Sometimes," I say.

"Molly?"

"This one is named Jenniver. With a v."

More to herself than me, Mom mutters, "We'll see how long she lasts."

Sigh.

We share the same problem. She's the only one who can see the full landscape of my life, and I'm the only one who can see hers. Deep down, Mom and I both know that we are the wrong audience for each other's grievances, but we are also the only understanding audience the other has at all. It's not my fault she won't make adult friends. It's not (entirely) her fault my friends are split across two towns and I only spend half the time with either group.

"Welp!" I grab my suitcase to finish the journey Mom started, yanking it up the three steps that lead to the front porch. "Guess this is goodbye after all. Try not to sob into your pillow every single night because your beloved only child is offering up love prophecies to all the tourists who couldn't afford to come to Fableview for Halloween!"

Mom laughs again. It's good she finds me funny. I need to coast on the sense of accomplishment it provides, since the last thing I'm doing as a Blake witch is racking up accomplishments.

"I love you, little butterfly," Mom says.

"Love you too, Mother dearest."

"Be good," she tells me.

"Be naughty," I say back, stealing one final laugh to live on for the next thirty days.

Inside Dad's house, I'm greeted by the pungent smell of commingling herbs and a cacophony of conflicting noises. There are at least four voices talking over one another, fighting to be heard above the clatter of pots and pans and the crooked back door squeaking open, then slamming shut. I can't recall a single time this place hasn't been filled with at least two guests who don't live here, not to mention the residents, the official number of which is constantly fluctuating.

Today, the assortment of visitors includes my grandma, two of my cousins, and the aforementioned Jenniver with a v. The residents are my dad; my half sister, Francine; our three black cats, Onyx, Tourmaline, and Hematite; our terrier-Chihuahua mix, Judy; and our Bernese mountain dog, Bark. I named Bark when I was five, and he has worn the title with reverence ever since.

When I walk into the kitchen, he does, as advertised, bark.

"Oh good, she's here!" my grandma says after Bark announces my presence. She wraps me up in a hug, peppering kisses atop my freshly unmussed bangs. "How's my sweet little witch?"

"Better now that I'm with you," I tell her, enjoying the way she smells like herbs and feels like sunshine, warm and bright and centering every room. "How are you?"

"Busy as ever," she says. "Just the way I like to be. It's the best time of the year, isn't it?"

Dad's side of the family owns a metaphysical apothecary called Witches of Fableview, where we do tarot readings and sell herbal blends, tinctures, and other potions all year round. During Love Month, all anyone wants from us are our romantic varietals. What would last us several weeks in our offseason can sell out in under five days during this time, so production spills over to Dad's house to accommodate the demand.

The Keller family-all mortals-runs Fableview's famous Halloween activities. Grandma loves that the Blake witches get to control the town's attention this time of year.

"The best," I confirm.

Pleased with my agreement, Grandma returns to the rocking chair we keep in the corner of the kitchen for her. She turns on the record player placed beside it-also for her-and begins to sing along. The music crackles, struggling to accommodate the maxed-out volume, but the warped effect doesn't bother Grandma in the slightest. She actually prefers it, claiming music doesn't sound as good on newer technology.

My cousins, sixteen-year-old twins named Sammy and Sarah, stand side by side at the kitchen island, pulling dried flowers off stems and crushing them with a mortar and pestle as they chat about the month's upcoming events in the hushed, speedy shorthand they love to use when I'm around.

"Hi, Piper," Sarah says, almost in a mocking tone.

"Hey," Sammy follows, barely looking away from her task.

We're closest in age of anyone in our family, and the three of us used to be quite the trio. Now that we're all over the age of sixteen, things have changed between us. We're the new generation of Blake witches, and we know eventually a leader must emerge among us. Apparently, that means I'm on the outs.

"Hello," I say, settling into an open chair around the kitchen table to join the family work. I already know I will be filling up herb sachets: scooping up a quarter cup of our signature love blend, dumping it into a pouch, then tying the top into a bow.

If I had my choice, I would be wrapped in a gigantic blanket on my mom's back porch right now, enjoying the January chill with a cup of cocoa and a good book. But I don't have my choice, so at least I can find some semblance of enjoyment in the meditative nature of this task.

Scoop, measure, drop into sachet, tie the knot, put it away.

Over and over.

Right when something resembling peace begins to settle over the room, my little sister, Francine, bursts in through the back entrance, her oversized garden boots thwacking against the rickety kitchen floor as the door smacks itself closed.

"Hi, Pie!" Francine says, greeting me with so much unbridled excitement, it takes the edge off my cousins' indifference.

"Oh hello, Frannie dear." I stand so she can jump into my arms for a hug. We've been doing this since she was a toddler, and even though she's growing like a weed, already almost as tall as my chin, I'm committed to keeping it up as long as possible.

We get one twirl into our spinning hug before my cousin Sarah lets out a "Careful."

"Now, now," Grandma says, warm even in her scolding. "Let the girls have a bit of fun."

Sarah's cheeks burn as I set Francine on the ground and return to my seat at the table. Francine-born with the ability to never be bothered by much of anything-grabs her step stool and positions it so close to Sarah, they're touching shoulders. Sammy, who always takes up whatever cause Sarah's assigned herself to, lets out an exasperated sigh designed to tell Francine she's being invasive. But Francine remains laser focused, taking stock of the supply inventory on the counter, her index finger pointing at each item as she counts it all aloud.

As brashly as she entered, Francine exits, the kitchen door slamming behind her as she sprints into the backyard to gather up another round of herbs from the greenhouse. A moment later, in walks Jenniver through the door Francine just exited.

I swear, this house can sense when true quiet has started to fall over a room, and it sends someone to disturb it.

"How's it going in here?" Jenniver asks, her smile like high beams on a dark road-way too bright and aggressive to greet head-on.

"Just fine," Grandma says curtly.

You learn your place in our family very early on, and you stick to it, which is why Jenniver stands out. If we are all ants on a hill, routing our familiar paths without need for conversation or confirmation, she is a beetle. Maybe a praying mantis. Perhaps an iguana. Something wholly out of place, lanky and blond and awkward and very much hoping to be included, traipsing around the kitchen to examine what everyone's up to with way too much enthusiasm.

"Wow, you're so fast with that!" she says to Sammy and Sarah as they pull petals off flowers.