The Craft Chapter 7: The Warning

To some of the recent commenters--chill, I'm trying to finish this puppy. Really.

(Note: This is an entirely made-up sequence I've based on the one weird clip on the movie trailer showing Sarah w/scars on her back getting "healed" by Rochelle–this scene never appeared in the movie itself, and fans call it the "mystery" scene. You can find it on the DVD if you pause it just right. I was going to post it within the body of the story but it has a shirtless Sarah in it. For all the Craft "purists" reading this, you can skip this if you want and head over to Chapter 8 without missing anything.)

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When the girls finally "let go" of Manon the sun was going down. They had completely lost track of time.

"God," Bonnie said, rubbing her left leg that had fell asleep, "how long have we been here?"

"I don't know," Rochelle replied, shaking her head full of corkscrew curls and throwing the chalice, a clay pentacle, and a few books into a bag. "But my mom is going to KILL me–K-I-L-L."

Nancy felt no rush to leave–not just because, unlike Rochelle's rich parents, "Grace" could hardly care what time the girl arrived home. "Home"–there was nothing to come home to. That shack with the skinny dog tied to a pole and the leaky roof wasn't her home. No. The grass upon which she sat–the big tree that only minutes ago (it seemed, though in reality it was more like hours ago) released its bounty of butterflies to bless the quartet–all of it–this was her true home. Under Manon's wide berth–wherever nature spread its wings–that was her home, her seat of power. Why didn't the other girls see that? Did their eyes shift as Nancy's had? Could they see the thin shimmer of the Power hanging upon the leaves and branches like gossamer?

"C'mon guys," the short dark-haired girl said, her ice-blue eyes rolling, "let's stay a little longer, what's the problem? Didn't you see what happened? How can you worry about anything–we've got Manon on our side!"

The others looked back at her vaguely, half-absorbed in the packing up of their belongings and the brushing-off of dirt and grass from their clothes. The miracle of the butterflies was quickly receding into their memory in the face of the pressures and reassertion of reality. Rochelle's over achieving parents waiting impatiently for her by the door, tapping their watches and worrying about her SATs. Sarah's dread of running into Chris or one of his asshole friends in the halls again, so uncomfortable, so humiliating. And Bonnie–Bonnie sheepishly pulling her jacket back over her scarred shoulder, scars the very essence of Reality with a capital "R". Scars like monuments that last forever, regardless of the butterflies or gods that deign to visit.

"It could have been a coincidence, Nance," Rochelle answered in a voice that was meant to be sympathetic but grated on Nancy's ears like nails across a chalkboard. "It's late Spring. Butterflies...do their thing this time of the year."

"Maybe they were attracted by the wine," Bonnie offered, as she zipped her jacket up to her chin. "It's sweet."

Nancy felt like she was drowning, like her grip on her miracle was slipping away with each "perfectly rational reason" each girl volleyed in her direction. In desperation she turned to Sarah. The brunette with the long mousy hair merely shrugged, her face expressionless.

But Sarah knew–Sarah knew, too. She felt it as strong as Nancy. She knew. She knew and she was too damn scared and excited and overjoyed and fearful to say one word about it.

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The girl speared a piece of squishy broccoli with her fork and thought: "what if everything I ever wanted came true?"

"Is it too cold?"

Sarah, startled from her reverie, looked up at Jenny blankly. "Huh?" Then she remembered--by the time she arrived home, what was left of dinner wa in the process of being partitioned out in little fake Tupperware bowls. Duh.

The older woman began again good-naturedly, gesturing at Sarah's dish. "I could just warm it up for you in the microwave, it won't take any time..."

Good ol' Jen, the girl thought. Unlike the stereotypical step-mother, dad's new wife really tried to have a good relationship with her. And they did. Have a good relationship. Though nobody could take the place of her mother...

"Uh? Oh, no, Jen, it's okay, it's fine...it tastes great! It's my fault, anyway for getting home so late..."

"...and not calling!" her dad called out from the living room, shaking his newspaper dramatically for emphasis. Dad–trying to be stern, failing miserably, too much of a big teddy-bear. Points for effort, though.

"Sorry..."

Mr. Bailey immediately folded in the face of his daughter's apology. "No, that's...that's okay, honey, I'm glad you've made some friends so soon in the school." He folded the paper on his lap and thought for a second, then smiled. "Hey, you should invite them for dinner some time!"

Sarah pictured Nancy, Bonnie, and Rochelle holding a ritual for Manon on the very dining-room table she ate her clammy chicken teriyaki. As much as she liked the girls, there was something about the idea of them–especially Nancy-- crossing the threshold of her doorway into the house that bothered her for some reason...for no reason, actually. She didn't know why she thought that. It was probably because she was an aloof, crazy, mixed-up person, she thought with a frown.

The pale brunette cleaned her plate and went to bed.

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Rochelle?

"Yes, Sarah?"

What are you doing here?

"We're having the field trip, remember? That's why we're sitting in the grass...duh."

Duh. Well. Anyway.

"Anyway."

'Chelle, what happened to my shirt?

"I'm healing your back."

Why are you healing my back?

"Because you've got these scars, silly."

I...Rochelle, that's Bonnie. I don't have any scars.

"Yes you do."

No, I don–ok, actually, I guess I do. But they're on my wrist.

"They're really big scars, Sarah. Nancy can't believe how big they are. Maybe Manon can fix things. Make it all better."

But Rochelle, nothing can make it all better...

"Remember the butterflies? You believed then, didn't you? You just didn't say anything. You believed because you have the Power. Don't you?"

Aw, come on, 'Chelle, I don't have any power...I was just exaggerating that time, about making myself go deaf for three days. And that homeless man...well, he was crazy...

"No, Nancy said you have great power. Great, great power."

She said that, really? I always thought she didn't really like me.

"Nancy says you have great power."

Oh...okay. Wow. Anyway...that stupid spell I did, though...about Chris...that's bogus, it's not going to work...

"Are you kidding? Chris is crazy about you. Absolutely crazy."

Uh, really? Wow...how do you know?

"Nancy told me, of course. It's all over the school. Chris is in love with you. He can't stop thinking about you."

Really?

"Really."

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And in the dream Sarah asked Rochelle a hundred times, a thousand times, if it was true, if Chris really liked her. And it was all swirling in her mind...Rochelle sitting behind her, healing her bare back...Chris...the butterflies...the bloody straight-razor clinking in the white porcelain sink..and suddenly she felt a sharp thing stick into her back, at the base of her spine. And she knew without looking back that it was no longer Rochelle behind her, knew it was now Nancy, could feel that short Gothic girl's patchouli-scented breath whispering in her ear–

"Agh!" Sarah gasped as she bolted upright in her bed, curling her arms inward protectively towards her gut & shaking.

But whatever message the dream had meant to impart got lost in the sheer, crushing disappointment of being back, of being Here, in the real World...in a world where a player like Chris definitely wasn't hers, never would be. And she felt such a tide of remorse, of sorrow as she entered the waking world where she could never be together with him...and her crying, it was more than that bastard ever deserved.