The witch offered me a spell for a hundred dollars. I looked around her Silver Stream trailer. She had black-light posters of Elvis and Chuck Norris. A few pieces of beef jerky, still in the package, on the counter. An open beer. No herbs. No cauldron. No cat.
"You're fake," I said.
She whistled and a ferret suddenly wound itself around her neck. "Honey, I have powers you couldn't even dream of."
"Power to get a new outfit," I thought, eying her Vegas inspired ensemble. The bright-pink heels, matching satin shorts, the tee that spelled BITE ME with sequins. She was wearing wrap-around sunglasses indoors. Nothing about her said, TRUST ME. I had just happened to be walking by and seen her sign.
"Cure acne?" I asked casually.
She laughed. "You think so small, little girl."
"I'm not little. I'm fourteen."
"I could make you beautiful."
"My mother wouldn't like it."
"I could make you grown up and beautiful so you'd never have to go home again." She whistled again and the ferret disappeared.
"Did that just--?"
"Power." She smiled. "Do you want power, missy? Many have chosen power over beauty--over acne cures." She lit a cigarette. "Is there anyone you don't like at school?"
That was easy. Gretchen Negard, the cheerleader rat fink who called me "zit-face." Who wrote it in big block letters in black magic marker on my locker, next to a huge round circle meant to represent a zit. I'd like to give Gretchen Negard so many zits she'd be one giant postule, a walking zit. Even Pastor Unseth dressed up as a zit last Halloween for a church-youth costume party. Ha ha. Zits aren't funny. "No," I said to the Elvis witch, "I am beloved by everyone."
She let out smoke, smiled. "Not Gretchen Negard."