Shadow Girl

Book One: Who I Am

[Chapter One: Wiccan Witch]

Wake me up, wake me up inside…I can't wake up, wake me up inside…Save me, call my name and save me from the dark…

I slapped the alarm clock off and lay in bed for a few minutes. Another day, I told myself. I made a face at my ceiling, then rolled off my bed.

I took a quick shower, then started towel-drying my hair in front of the mirror. The mirror in front of me showed a girl with dark hair and hazel eyes, a normal sight. But I'm nowhere near normal.

I'm a blood witch. I've known it forever.

And so has everyone else. Ever since I used magick to transport myself out of a haunted house when I was six. Ever since I shattered a window in seventh grade by using my mind to slam it shut. Everyone knows I'm different. Everyone knows I'm a witch.

And you know what? I hate it.

I'm tired of sticking out. I try to blend in, but everyone stares at me like I'm not human. I touched the pentacle hanging on a silver chain around my neck. It made me think of how the Nazis made Jews wear Stars of David on their coats. Proof that I'm Wiccan, hanging there where everyone can see.

But I can't bring myself to just take it off. My parents gave me this necklace when I was born, and they spelled it with protection, so their only daughter would be safe. It's a part of me, like being a witch is. You could say that my life is a Wiccan soap opera.

But anyway, I realized yesterday that I've been going about this blending-in thing all wrong. Up till now, I've been dressing myself in dark, neutral-color clothing, in hopes that I'd just disappear among the shadows. I should have known that it would only make me look like a Goth Wiccan witch.

So now I'm taking it in a whole new direction: If I want to blend in with the other girls at school, I have to dress like them.

I opened the bathroom cabinet and took out a bottle of hair gel. I squirted a small pool of the goopy pink stuff into the palm of my hand, and proceed to work it into my not-quite-dry hair. After my head was coated with the gel, I took out two brown paper towels I'd horded from the school bathroom and began scrunching my hair with them. The result was a new hairstyle of little waves. Little cute cheerleader-style waves.

I looked so different. Part of me wanted to douse my head with water and blow-dry it straight, like it should be. But I reminded myself of how I was alienated at school. I had to do everything to fit in. My sanity, at least, depended on it.

I walked out of the bathroom and into my room. Next: Phase Two of my mission. I slid back the door of my closet and yanked out an Abercrombie & Fitch shopping bag. I'd gone to the mall yesterday and spent all my birthday and Christmas money given to me by my mom's adoptive parents. Being Wiccan, my family and I don't actually celebrate Christmas, but Grandpa and Grandma Rowlands are sort of in denial about the blood witch thing. They have been since Mom was sixteen years old.

When I'd gone into Abercrombie & Fitch the day before, I was practically convinced that I was in way over my head. But one of the girls working there latched onto me, saying that I looked exactly like some girl on Dawson's Creek. I just blinked at her and let her pick out clothes for me.

Now I took the clothing out of the bag one by one. First was a light purple tube top. I still didn't know why I'd agreed to buy it; Along with my magick, I'd inherited my mother's lack of feminine curves. But this Abercrombie & Fitch girl was really persuasive. She said that the color accentuated my dark features, so I bought it. Over the tank top I put a darker purple button-down short sleeved stretchy shirt. I buttoned only the middle button, the way the girl had suggested. Then I put on the khaki skirt, which reached down to the middle of my shins. I slid on clunky tan sandals, which made me even taller than I already am. With my flat chest and freakish height, I slightly resemble that girl from The Princess Diaries. Except for the fact that I'm not the heir to the throne of a small European principality.

Oh, no. I'm the daughter of the Woodbane Princess of Belwicket. Ain't life grand?

Phase three of Mission: Makeover was my least favorite. I pulled a plastic bag full of makeup out of my desk drawer. My desk is covered with books about Wicca, books that I've been studying since I was ten. I'm fourteen now, and my four years of studying combined with the amazing power I was born with from my mother's side, Mom and Dad say that I can be initiated whenever I'm ready. Being a fully initiated witch means having complete control over your powers, and it's what most, if not all, blood witches train for their entire lives. Me, I'm not even sure I want to be initiated. After all, being a blood witch was the reason why I'd become an outcast at school.

And because I'd become an outcast, I was covering my face in makeup. I pulled out the concealer and realized, I really didn't have anything to conceal. I don't have pimples or any other kind of blemish. I simply ran it over my forehead and nose, then rubbed it in. I took the blush and the little cosmetics brush and lightly dusted my cheeks in a dark pink. Not too much, not too little. I bit my lip and held the liquid eyeliner in front of me. Putting any foreign objects anywhere near my eyes was not appealing. I screwed off the cap and leaned towards my full-length mirror, trying to not let my hand wobble too much…

I stabbed my eye with the eyeliner.

I cursed under my breath like crazy, then clomped back into the bathroom. Clomping is pretty much the only way to walk in sandals like those. I quickly flushed my eye out with water, then carefully wiped it dry without ruining my previous work. My left eye looked red and irritated. "Okay, no eyeliner," I whispered to myself. I quickly clomped back into my room and put on some lip gloss. I was ready for my day.

Clomp, clomp, clomp. The stupid shoes were already getting on my nerves. The stairs in my house lead directly into the kitchen, where my parents were sitting eating breakfast. I clomped down the stairs loudly, gaining both of their attentions. They blatantly stared; I guess I really looked different.

I stumbled on the last few steps, grabbing the banister to keep from falling down completely. My parents simply raised their eyebrows at me, and I scowled back. Practically all of my school pictures show me scowling; I've never been a picture person. It freaks my grandparents out, just like the Wicca stuff does. Sometimes being around them makes me want to burst out in laughter.

"Good morning, Moira," my father said in his crisp British accent, while I clomped my way to a chair. My dad was born in England and moved here, to Widow's Vale, New York, when he was nineteen. He pulled a teabag out of his mug and strained it against his spoon. Dad doesn't drink coffee that much. I'm guessing it's the British thing.

Come to think of it, Mom doesn't drink coffee in the morning, either. Next to me, I could hear her pop open a can of Diet Coke. "Why can't you guys drink coffee like normal people?" I asked suddenly, with a hint of irritation in my voice.

My parents looked at me, then at each other. "Because I like tea," my dad answered.

"And I like Diet Coke," my mom added with a grin.

"As if this family couldn't get more weird," I muttered, picking at my Pop Tart. A minute later I could feel my mother's senses gently probing my mind. "Mom! Geez, get out of my head! Most mothers just ask what's wrong, you know?!"

Mom sat back in her chair, looking apologetic. "I'm sorry. Moira, what's wrong?"

Resent washed over me. "Nothing," I grumbled. My mother threw her hands up in exasperation and looked at my dad for help.

"Moira, love, you have to talk to us," Dad said in a rare, comforting voice. Usually he's businesslike and solemn.

"You're not gonna like it," I told him, inspecting my Pop-Tart carefully.

"School or boys?" Mom questioned.

"Wicca."

"What?"

I took a deep breath. "I'm tired of it," I told them. "Wicca has made me a total outcast at school, and I haven't had a real friend in forever. Everyone steers clear of the Wiccan Witch of Widow's Vale. And it's just really bugging me, and I know, 'you never knew it bothered me before,' but when I was a kid, I was like, I can levitate my bed, what the hell do I care if I don't have any friends? But things are different now." I took another breath. My mom's cat, Dagda, rubbed against my leg, giving me temporary comfort.

My parents were silent. I knew they were having a non-verbal conference with each other. Finally my dad spoke. "Listen, Moira, we understand that it must be hard for you…but you can't just quit being Wiccan. It's in your blood."

"But can't I like, relinquish my magick or something?" I pressed.

"Having your power stripped from you is a horrible experience," Mom told me quietly. "Your father and I both have witnessed people being stripped of their magick, and it's painful to even watch."

"So I'm stuck with this curse forever?" I asked faintly.

"It's not a curse," Mom told me. "It's a gift, and I know it may not feel like it right now but sooner or later you're gonna see how lucky you are."

"Oh yeah, when I'm elected president of the Losers Club, I'll know just who to thank," I spat, grabbing my coat and backpack. "See ya." I walked out the door and clomped my way to high school.

*    *    *

Throngs of kids milled around Widow's Vale High School's campus when I arrived. I headed straight into the school; March weather is not my favorite. It's cold and dreary and just not nice. I opened my locker and shoved my jacket inside. I could see people staring at me, at what I was wearing. I felt like saying,

"Well, look who's trying to fit in now." I turned to look into the clear blue eyes of Courtney Hartford. We used to be friends. But when I made her doll fly through the air in kindergarten, she swore I was a freak of nature and never spoke nicely to me again. It's not like I was trying to hurt the Barbie. I just thought she'd be impressed. "If you're such a powerful little witch, why can't you give yourself some boobs?"

"I was thinking about doing that," I said easily, "but I'm working on something that'll give you a brain. It takes a lot of time and effort to make up for what you're lacking, you know?" I brushed past her into my science room.

I sat down, rearranging my books in my backpack just for something to do. Students were beginning to file in.

A bunch of boys sat down at the table behind me, laughing and talking loudly to each other. They started talking a little quieter, and then Derek Boles sidled over and sat down next to me. "Hey there, Moira."

I tensed up a little. Here we go again, I thought. The guys in school always tease me, mockingly hit on me, coming at me with lines like You've got me under your spell. Please. It makes me sick. "What, Derek?"

Derek let his arm creep up around me. My anger flared inside. "How about you and me make a little magic?" he whispered in my ear.

I shoved him away. "Go to hell and get a life while you're there."

"Aw, c'mon, what's the matter?" Derek cajoled. He fingered my pentacle necklace. "You know, I've heard that Wicca is for dykes…"

I sat there trying to control my anger. I hated his tone. One of my mother's aunts is gay,  and she's one of my favorite people. He had no right to say stuff like that.

Derek leaned towards me again. "Am I gonna have to teach you a thing or two?"

Suddenly a grin spread across my face. "How about I teach you a few things?" I asked him, leaning in real close. Then, I focused all my anger on his chair.

The chair shot away a few feet, then stopped abruptly. Derek was knocked off thanks to inertia, and the other boys behind us roared with laughter.

"Maybe that'll teach you not to mess with a witch," I told him, smiling triumphantly.

"M-Moira," Ms. Tanner stammered. "G-Go. Go to the principal's office." I resist the urge to smirk. I scare Ms. Tanner.

"Yes, ma'am!" I said cheerfully, hiking my red backpack onto my shoulder. I tossed my dark hair over my shoulder and clomped my way down to the principal's office.

Mr. Bradley Richter's office is practically my second home. Ever since the first day in school, when he called me down to discuss the rumors of my being a witch. When he had begun to go on about straightening things out because the idea of me having magickal powers was impossible, I'd leaned forward and blown out the candle on the desk. As he'd stared at me, I'd leaned back and concentrated hard on the wick of the candle until it had burst into flame. I'm a fire fairy; just like my mother, and her mother before her. I can still remember the way he'd yelped, like a puppy whose tail had been stepped on.

Now I sat down in my usual chair, and Mr. Richter sat in his seat, looking back at me. "Miss Riordan-Niall--"

"Uh, sir?" I asked. "Shouldn't we be on a first-name basis by now?"

He gave me a look. "Fine. Moira--"

"Brad," I answered, smiling mischievously.

Mr. Richter slammed his hands down on his desk. I winced; guess it was a one-way first name basis. He then put his hands up to his head, rubbing his temples. "What are you in for now, Moira?"

"Derek Boles was sexually harassing me," I told him bluntly. "So…I kinda-sorta…gave him some low-altitude flying lessons."

"Oh, Moira!"

"Whaat? It didn't hurt him that bad!" I sat up a little straighter. "You should have heard him. And all I actually did was make his chair move. The Law of Inertia did the rest."

Mr. Richter sat with his head in his hands. He rubbed his temples, and I got the feeling that being around me gave him migraines. "Moira, you know as well as I do that there are a lot of people on the PTA and on the faculty that would like to see you kicked out of this school." He looked up at me. "Your…powers aren't something they're used to. They're afraid of it, and they want you gone because of it. And I have fought for you. I'm still fighting for you, in fact. I'm in your corner, Moira, but if you keep using your powers against the other students, it's a losing battle."

"I understand, Mr. Richter, but it's hard," I told him. "People persecute me every day just because of who I am. And when I have the power to retaliate…"

"You have to restrain yourself and be the better person," Mr. Richter said. He leaned back in his chair. "I'll treat this like it was a normal physical assault. You're suspended for two days, starting today. I'll call your mother and tell her you'll be waiting in the main office. And…" Mr. Richter gave me a slightly sympathetic look. "I'll call down Mr. Boles and have a word with him."

"Thanks." I carried my backpack out to the main office and sat down in one of the waiting chairs. Touching my wavy hair, I pulled a pen out of my backpack and twisted my hair into a bun with it. I swore to myself that I would never go to school looking like this again.

*  *  *

            The ride home with my mother was tense. She kept her eyes on the road, and her mouth was a thin line. I glanced up at her from time to time. Mom was really angry; I could tell. I could feel it.

            When we got home, I sat down on the couch and waited. Mom looked at me. "I don't understand, Moira," she said in a quiet voice.

            I stared back at her silently.

            "This morning you were ready to strip yourself of magick," she continued, her voice rising. "And then I get a phone call from Mr. Richter saying that you've used magick against another student?!"

            "It was in self-defense!" I protested, slapping the couch with my hands. "You should have heard the kid!"

            "I don't care, Moira!" My mother was screaming now. "Don't you understand that you can't risk getting kicked out of this school? The only other schools available are farther away and cost extra money for us to send you, and we don't have that money! Don't you understand that?!"

            "You're the one who doesn't understand!" I yelled back, shooting up to a standing position. "I have lived with being a freak of nature since the day I was born! I hate being a witch! I hate being your stupid daughter with your stupid powers! I hate it!"

            I ran past my mother, up to my room, and spelled my door closed. My own words echoed through my head, and I started hitting my closed door with my fists, yelling "Damn it!" over and over. I did it until my hands were bruised and I was choking on my own tears. I slid down to the floor and stayed that way for what seemed like an eternity.