Tris & Izzie (2 page)

W
e ran past the office and the auditorium, and then turned left at the second hall where the deadheads hung out by the bathrooms. When we got closer, I stopped and put out a hand for Branna to stay behind me. If Mel had a magic bottle of wine, who knew what else he might have? A magic knife? Or sword?

Branna had no defense against him except herself, but I had a special protection potion I carried in my backpack. Mom had insisted I start carrying it to school when we moved here, after Dad died. That was when she got her job as an ambulance driver and started using her potions to save people's lives.

I think Mom still feels guilty about what happened with Dad. She thought we both just had the flu. But then he died, and she had to make up a potion to save me. It almost wasn't enough at that point, because I was sick for weeks.

After that, she became paranoid about keeping me safe, so now she sends me to school with the potion. I don't know exactly what it's supposed to do, but Mom assured me that if I was ever threatened, all I had to do was pop the cork and throw it at whoever was trying to hurt me.

I could hear Mel's voice down the hall now. I moved as quietly as possible, so as not to surprise him and have him turn his magic—if he had magic—on us.

“We have lots of interesting things at home,” said Mel. “My parents came from Alsace-Lorraine and they brought some of the last, best magic of the old country.”

A girl giggled. I could smell the cloying, overly sweet odor of whatever Mel had on him. They were shadowy figures still, not clear enough for me to recognize the girl or to see the object Mel was holding in his hand.

“If you come over to my house tonight, I could show you all my magic,” said Mel.

I rolled my eyes. What a line.

I put my hand on the vial of potion and pulled it out of my pocket. I had held on to it a few times in the past, when I was walking home in the dark or when I heard weird noises in the house while Mom wasn't home. But I had never actually cracked the cork before.

Mom told me that the potion wouldn't kill anyone—or make them melt, which I asked after I saw
The Wizard of Oz
for the first time. It would just keep me safe from any threat, and I figured that included Mel Melot.

“Izzie,” whispered Branna, behind me.

I turned around and put a finger to my lips.

Her eyes were wide and she gestured for me to get out of the way. She had to outweigh Mel Melot by about a hundred pounds. I'm sure she thought she was the one to handle him.

But I was stubborn enough to shake my head at her. I didn't want her to get in trouble with the principal because she got into a fistfight with Mel. There was a zero-tolerance policy for violence at the school, and she could end up being suspended.

The girl whispered something.

“I like freshman girls,” said Mel. “They're just easier to talk to. Not so judgmental.”

Not so smart
, I thought.

I was definitely going to tell Mark to exile Mel. But for now, I had to stop him. This girl was young and obviously gullible, and Mel was taking advantage of her, magically.

In fact, Mel was violating one of the rules of magic that Mom has told me about over and over again, even though I don't have magic myself. It's a rant left over from when she used to live with lots of magical people. Magic isn't to be used to manipulate or deceive. Magic is a source of good, and it's people like Mel Melot using it wrongly that made other people burn witches in the old days.

That was when people with magic started to withdraw into the pockets around the world where they live now. Mom says that their isolation also helps police the magic, so no single magic user becomes too powerful and takes control of the non-magical world. She got out because she was just a witch, and even so, she had to promise she would use her magic to help people, magical and non-magical alike.

I lifted the vial to my mouth and used my teeth to tear out the cork. There wasn't any flavor that I could detect, which surprised me. When my mom gave me the healing potion after my dad died, I had a smoky, sooty taste in my mouth for days. I also had terrible dreams about a forty-foot-tall serpent with red and gold sparkling scales saying my name.

But eventually, the dreams went away, and I always assumed they were an aftereffect of the potion. I hadn't taken any other potions besides that one. But I had seen Mom make them, and I knew she sometimes put snake scales in them. I figured that might have triggered my dream in some way. If there had been newts in the potion, I would probably have dreamed about giant newts instead.

Branna scuffed her foot against the wall, and Mel jerked upright, craning down the hallway. “Who's there?” he asked. He was reaching for his pocket, and I reacted swiftly.

Hands shaking, heart thundering, I threw the potion in his face and stepped to the side.

But nothing happened.

No screaming.

No frozen human statue.

Had Mom's potion lost its effect after all this time?

I saw Mel's hand slip back into his pocket, along with a cigarette. Not a knife. Not a sword.

Maybe I'd gone a little overboard with the potion. Would Mom be mad at me when I told her I'd wasted it? But why hadn't it done anything? All these years, I thought it would protect me, and it was useless in the end.

For a moment, I doubted my mom's magic. Could it all be pretend—all the potions she made, all her secretiveness? Or maybe Mel hadn't been enough of a direct threat?

“What was that?” asked Mel, wiping at his face. “Did you just spit at me? That's gross.”

“Leave him alone!” shouted the freshman girl. “What do you think you're doing?” She put an arm around Mel's chest.

But he shoved her off kind of roughly. “Get out of here,” he told her.

She hesitated a moment and then left, giving me a dirty look on her way out.

“Show me that bottle,” I said to Mel. Just because he didn't have a weapon didn't mean he wasn't dangerous, magic or no magic.

“I don't have to,” said Mel.

Branna came around to my front and gave him a men-acing look, just like the one she had used on my tormenters in kindergarten. “Show it to her,” she said.

Mel's lips twisted together. “Fine. Look at it,” he said, holding out the bottle to me.

It was about the size of a normal wine bottle, the glass tinged green. It did not look particularly magical, but it did look really old. I held the label up to the light, but the words were so faded I couldn't read them. “What's in this?” I asked.

“The good stuff,” said Mel. “For the girls, you know.”

“Right.” I sniffed the bottle. Definitely not wine. It was something stronger.

“Hey, what are you doing?” asked Mel, trying to grab it back from me.

Branna kept him from moving. She stood between him and me, and I'm sure she would have been glad to pin him against the wall if he touched me.

I turned the bottle upside down, but nothing came out.

I squinted and looked inside the bottle. There was definitely something there. I wiggled the bottle back and forth and could hear sloshing.

“It has a special no-drip cap,” said Mel.

“There is no cap on this right now,” I said. How stupid did he think I was?

“Well, the bottle is designed specially—” he tried again.

I gave him the bottle back. “Drink it,” I said.

“I already had plenty,” said Mel.

“Drink it,” said Branna, looming over him.

“Fine.” Mel took a couple of swallows.

“Drink more,” I said.

Mel kept drinking. But when he handed it back to me, it had the same amount of liquid in it as before,.

It was definitely magic—no reason to doubt that.

I still didn't know what had made Mom's potion inactive. Maybe she'd have an explanation when I told her about it.

“It's magic. Very valuable. A family heirloom,” said Mel, his tone commanding. “It's important to me.”

“I guess you shouldn't have brought it to school to get freshman girls drunk, then, should you?” I took the bottle and threw it against the cement blocks that were the walls of the school. It didn't shatter. It just thunked back at me.

Mel took a deep breath, as if relieved.

“Let me try that,” said Branna, picking up the bottle.

“Please,” said Mel, his attitude changing from belligerent to begging. “Please. I could get you something really nice. A potion or something. I'd make it worth your while. You don't know how much trouble I will be in if you break that.”

I shook my head. “I don't need any potions from him,” I said to Branna.

She lifted the bottle.

“No!” shouted Mel, and he looked really afraid: trembling, sweating. It made me feel sorry for him, a little.

Branna hesitated. “What kind of potions?” she asked.

“Any kind,” said Mel. “Strength potion—or—or—a love potion!”

Branna tensed.

“Yeah, a love potion,” Mel went on. “I can make anyone fall in love with you. Anyone at all. I just need a bit of him and a bit of you, and you have to get him to drink some-thing. You want that?”

“Not from you,” said Branna. She smashed the bottle against the wall, and while it didn't shatter, it did fall into several large pieces, which slipped to the ground and started to sizzle. Mel tried to pick them up, but they were disappearing.

I turned away from him.

“You're going to regret this!” Mel shouted after us as we walked back down the hall toward our lockers. “You're both going to regret this someday!”

I didn't worry about that much, because once I told Mark to exile Mel, no one at the school would speak to him again. It had happened before. Mel might hang around for a little while, offering his magic to the dregs, but eventually he'd find another school. And that was fine with me, as long as it was far away from this one and no one could connect me and my mom with his talk of magic.

“Thanks for your help, Branna,” I said.

“No problem.” She wouldn't look me in the eyes, and I had a sudden feeling I knew why. She'd done the same thing when Mark had been teasing me: turned away, like she couldn't stand it anymore. It had to be because she was in love with someone—someone she couldn't have. In one moment Mel had put his finger on a problem I had been wondering about for months.

Branna had been content for a while to be the third wheel, going on dates with me and Mark and just hanging out. But now every time she saw us together, it hurt to be reminded of what she didn't have. I should have guessed this. Branna was my best friend. Why hadn't I noticed that she got upset around us as a couple? Probably because I paid attention to Mark. And to how I felt about him.

“You know, a love potion isn't the only way to get the guy of your dreams,” I said.

“You already have the guy of your dreams,” said Branna bitterly. “What do you know about the need for love potions?”

“I could help, you know. And if it's not someone I know, I could tell Mark. He knows almost everyone.”

“I don't want help,” said Branna. “From you or Mark.”

“How about my mom, then? I could get her to make you a love potion, if you want.” Actually, I didn't know if I could do that. Mom had never let me use her potions before. She wouldn't even let me near her potions while she was making them. She said that if I got any of my essence on them, it could invalidate them.

“I don't want a love potion,” said Branna.

“But you're in love, right? Wouldn't things be so much easier if he loved you back?”

Branna shook her head. “It tempted me for a moment, but I wouldn't really want him to love me because of a potion,” she said. “It has to come from him or it doesn't matter.”

“So, your solution is what?”

“I'll just have to wait,” said Branna.

“Wait for what? For him to fall in love with you back? What if he doesn't even know that you love him in the first place? You could spend the next two years with him completely oblivious to you, and then we'll graduate and you'll never know what might have happened. Is that what you want, Branna?” As soon as I said the words, I knew I'd gone too far. I wanted so much to help her, but she wouldn't let me, and now I'd hurt her feelings. Some friend I was.

“I'll live with it,” said Branna tightly. Then she walked off.

Mark was such a great guy, and I was so happy with him. It was killing me to see Branna like this. If only …

Branna said she didn't want him to fall in love with her because of a potion, but how would she know the difference, once it had happened? It was what a friend would do for a friend who was lonely, right? I just had to figure out how to get a love potion that would work.

W
hen Dad was alive, Mom would tell me stories and fairy tales about “true love” all the time. She stopped doing it after his death, because it hurt her too much. She's never gotten over him. She doesn't date, and it's not just for my sake. There's no one out there who makes her feel the way my dad did. So she has me, and her job, and her potions. She's always telling me her life is plenty full.

The way I remember hearing it when I was little, Mom and Dad met at a train station in the regular world. They were getting onto trains headed in opposite directions. When their eyes met, they knew they were meant for each other. I guess that's the way it is for people who have magic.

Since Dad had already boarded, he had to push three people out of the way, leave his suitcase behind on the train, and squeeze through the closing doors. Meanwhile, Mom threw a magic freezing potion on everyone on her train, then broke the glass in the door with her high-heeled shoes so she could get out and run to him. Love at first sight.

For a long time when I was in elementary school, I told myself that I was never going to fall in love after the pain I saw Mom go through with Dad.

But that was before Mark.

Mark and I bumped into each other—literally—while Branna and I were shopping at the mall early in our sopho-more year. I was looking around at some silver vests that I thought might be magic, and Mark was showing off some of his basketball moves to fans.

Then suddenly all his tall, dark, and handsomeness was staring up at me. His brown eyes were so deep I thought I might fall into them.

“Sorry,” he said, getting out from under me. “I wasn't looking where I was going.”

I guess I hadn't been, either.

“Here, let me help you.” He offered me a hand and set me back on my feet. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine,” I said, embarrassed when his hand brushed briefly against my backside. But not too embarrassed. I grinned up at him.

He said, “I'm Mark King.”

“I know who you are,” I said. “Everyone knows who you are.” I had completely forgotten about Branna until then. She was standing to the side, quiet, like she usually is. She was looking at Mark but not gawking at him like I was.

“This is Branna, my best friend,” I said, nodding toward her. “And I'm Izzie.”

Mark put out his hand.

“Brangane,” said Branna, shaking it. “But everyone calls me Branna.”

“It's an unusual name,” said Mark.

Branna shrugged. She didn't tell the story often, but it came out when anyone heard her full name. “My parents named me after this great-aunt, who's German. She's rich and she's old, and, well, they wanted me to inherit.”

“And did you?” asked Mark.

Branna shook her head. “She's a hundred and three and still kicking. I think she likes writing to my parents and telling them about the latest 5K she's run. She wins her age groups and everything.”

“Sounds like a tough old bird,” said Mark.

“Yeah. Well,” said Branna.

She's not so good at talking to boys, see? It's one of the things I wish she would let me help her with, but she won't practice or anything. She says that what comes naturally will either get her the right guy or it won't, but she won't do anything extra. She says it would be fake, and then the love would be fake, and what would be the point of that?

Branna won't even wear makeup or curl her hair. She puts it in braids to keep it out of her face, not to make herself prettier. Once in a blue moon, she will wear a dress. She doesn't understand that sometimes you have to get a guy's attention first, and then afterward you can let it be more natural.

“So, you want to get a yogurt with us or something?” I asked Mark that day. And he did.

Branna came with us and we had a grand time.

We've lived happily ever after for a year. Me and Mark, I mean. I guess not Branna.

Clearly, she needed help with love. I had experience. She might think that love shouldn't be helped along, but I knew better. In my case, it had been enough to bat my eyelashes, take Mark's arm, and eat yogurt slowly while I laughed at his jokes and leaned really close to him.

But for Branna, it was time to go to the source of all truth. The Internet …

I found
a site called
www.lovepotionsandmore.com
that had a recipe for a love potion from someone who claimed to be a “real witch.” It sounded like the kind of potion I'd seen my mom put together, and I thought it was worth a try. The other reason I thought there might be a chance it was real was that I knew the magic wasn't in the ingredients, and the Web site didn't claim it was, either.

Whenever I peeked in on my mom making potions, I knew that her magic came out of her as she stirred the ingredients together. And the Web site claimed that if you paid the money, the witch would send out magic through the Internet. All I had to do after that was make sure that I “activated” the potion by putting in a hair or fingernail clip-ping from each party.

I knew I didn't have magic like Mom did, but Mel Melot had bought that magic wine bottle. He wasn't a witch him-self or anything. He just knew enough to go looking for magic and pay for it. My mom didn't want other people knowing about her magic, but not all witches had to be that scrupulous, right? Besides, the recipe was guaranteed to work within the week or my money back. So either Branna would be happy with the right guy in time for the home-coming dance or I'd have my ten dollars.

The ingredients were:

The instructions were simple.

Why not milk? I didn't know. I wasn't going to use any-thing alcoholic, however, especially on school property. It said any kind of drink, so I had a bottle of Sprite. It was sweet enough to counteract the vinegar and strong enough to disguise other flavors.

I had Branna's comb. I'd taken it from her after school. It was easy, since we sit together on the bus. The day before I made the potion, I distracted her by pointing out the window; then I dug into the little pocket on the side of her backpack and slipped the comb into my front coat pocket. There was only one hair caught on it, but I figured it would be enough. I didn't know who the other particle would be from yet, but I could worry about that later.

Mom was scheduled to be at the hospital the next morning for at least six hours, so I had time to practice. Once I'd had breakfast, I got to work. I put on the double boiler, and then I stirred in the ingredients with a bamboo spoon. I wondered what Mom would put into a magical love potion.

Most of her potions were for strength or healing, some for happiness or a positive attitude. I think she once even made a potion to make someone sick, but I wasn't supposed to know about that. Mom muttered something about him confessing an evil plan to her while in the ambulance, and she wanted to make sure he couldn't go through with it. But that's not the way it usually works.

I thought about it, and then remembered Mom didn't call it a love potion at all. She said it was a love “philtre,” a French word for an originally French recipe. A few years ago she made one to give as a wedding gift to the daughter of one of the doctors at the hospital. After it was finished, as it was cooling on the stove, she said she was conflicted about it.

“Is it because you're afraid they'll find out you were the one who sent it?” I asked. “That you have real magic?”

Mom said no. She thought they would think it was quaint, but not real.

“Is it because you aren't sure it will work?”

“It will work,” Mom said.

“Then why? Is it too expensive?”

“The ingredients aren't expensive in themselves,” said Mom.

“Then does it take a lot of magic?”

Mom didn't answer for a while. Then she said, “It has to do with choice, Izzie. I wouldn't want to give magic that would take away someone's choice.”

“What about little kids in the ambulance? They can't choose whether to take one of your healing potions or not. Nor can people who are unconscious.” I was proud of myself for figuring out a loophole to Mom's argument.

“They want to live. The human body always wants to live,” said Mom. “Except—”

“What?” I asked.

“Well, there have been two times when I didn't give a potion that I could have given. Because I was asked not to.”

“I thought you said everyone wants to live.”

“I said the body wants to live. But there are times when the mind is ready to move on. When people are old enough to make that choice, Izzie, when they have lived a long life and they are choosing death not out of fear or despair but simply out of peace, then I would not force a potion, even on a dying body,” said Mom.

“Oh. But these two want to get married. Don't they?” We were looking at a photograph of the smiling bride and groom. Mom had been holding it the whole time, as if memorizing the two faces.

“They want to get married. But do they want to be in love forever?” Mom asked. “That's the question.”

“Of course they do,” I said. I might have been naive, but I figured anyone who wanted to get married wanted to be in love forever. “Did you and Dad take a love philtre?” I asked.

Mom hesitated for a long moment, then said, “Yes, we did. But it was after we had been married for a while. Kind of a renewal of vows thing, when you were born.”

“Then it must be the best thing to do. Because you and Dad were perfect for each other.”

I smiled, but Mom looked away.

She told me while she cleaned up the kitchen that in the old days, when they still had arranged marriages, the mother of the bride would go to a local witch and ask for a love philtre and give it to her daughter and the groom the night before the wedding. It was considered the best wedding gift, because it made sure the bride and groom would be happy with each other, even if they had never met before or even if they hated each other and the only reason they were getting married was that their families wanted them to.

“But to be in love with someone forever, even if they are gone, Izzie—that's a burden. Not everyone can bear it,” Mom said finally.

“You think one of them is going to die?” I asked, pointing to the photo.

“I don't think that.” Mom sighed. “I just don't know the two of them very well. And the philtre takes away any chance to fall out of love. It's not always a good thing. Sometimes people think they are in love with a person, but he or she turns out to have been hiding something important. Or things change, and it might be easier not to be in love forever.”

Mom didn't end up sending the love philtre after all. She decided it was too dangerous, and she couldn't be sure it was the right thing.

I never heard what happened to the couple. I guess you can be perfectly happily married without a love philtre. After all, I hadn't needed one with Mark, and we were fine. But Branna clearly needed something to help her along, and maybe a love potion would be just the thing. With none of the dangers of my mom's real magic.

The timer rang, and I started. The love potion did not look good. It smelled even worse. Had I done something wrong?

I could see the powdered cayenne and the little bits of ginger root floating in it like snow in a ghoulish snow globe. No wonder you were supposed to strain it.

I looked around the kitchen. I didn't think the colander would work, but I finally found some cheesecloth, which I don't think Mom has ever used for making cheese. I got out a glass jar and put the cheesecloth over the top of it, securing the cloth with a rubber band. Then I poured in just a tablespoon of liquid to see what would happen.

The cheesecloth worked great. The liquid in the glass jar looked clear and red, like good wine. Maybe this would work!

I poured in the rest of the potion, then took off the cheesecloth and swished it around.

Then I unwrapped the one hair from Branna's comb and stirred it in.

And—nothing. No sizzle. No flash of lightning to show power.

Suddenly, I was discouraged. What had I been thinking? A love potion off the Internet? By someone who promised she'd put magic in it if I paid her? There was no way this would work. This wasn't a magic wine bottle that would work for anyone. This had to work for two particular people.

I dumped the potion into the sink and sat, morosely thinking. Then I had an idea. My love potion had been a bust, but that didn't mean a real love philtre wouldn't work.

As far as I knew, Mom still had the love philtre she had almost sent to the bride and groom. I still had a few hours before Mom got home. All I had to do was find the key to the dark maple cabinet in her office, where she kept her potions.

I searched her whole room, looking through her makeup drawer, which was a mess, and her drawer of old lotions. She still had a few of Dad's things tucked away: his hair-brush, which still smelled like him, and his toothbrush and cinnamon toothpaste.

I finally found the key in her underwear drawer. That seemed like a dumb place to hide it, but then again, it was the last place I had thought to look, so it must not be too bad.

I checked my watch and realized I had spent hours looking for the key. Now Mom was supposed to be home in fifteen minutes. But if I worked fast, it might still be okay.

I hurried downstairs and opened the potion cabinet. When I looked inside, I saw that Mom didn't label her bottles. She didn't have to, since she had made them all herself and knew which was which.