The Witch Hunter Chronicles: Hunted

The left front wheel squeaked softly as I pushed the book cart over the industrial green carpet. Squeaky or not, at least that one rolled. The right front simply spun in a useless circle.

I wonder if this cart ever worked correctly. Was there like a quality-control process that someone skipped twenty years ago, or do wheels start doing this in book cart middle age? Like, how dad’s feet point out like a duck when he walks.

“Kenz!” Jordan said.

I looked up, saw shoulder, and tipped my head higher. I heard two vertebrae pop from the exertion.

“What?” I replied, rubbing my neck.

If we’re going to maintain this lifelong friendship, either Jordan needs to stop growing or I need to find a good chiropractor.

Mr. Campbell shushed us from his desk next to the check-out counter. I made a wave that I hoped looked apologetic, but judging by his deepening scowl, likely didn’t.

“Sorry about that Mr. C,” Jordan said in a faux whisper. Campbell smiled at Jordan, side-eyed me, and went back to his paper and ink newspaper.

When he turned back to me, Jordan said, “Did you hear anything I said?” His raised eyebrows implied that I, in fact, had not. The fact that he was right was beside the point.

“Yes, you think he likes you and you’re not sure if you’re that into him,” I said.

“Who’s the “he” we’re speaking of?” he asked, with only his left eyebrow remaining aloft.

This feels like a trap…

“Sam,” I replied. I tried to make it sound like a statement, but it came out more as a question. I pulled a book off the cart and pretended to read the title.

He sighed in a manner that, from experience, implied that perhaps, Sam wasn’t exactly what he’d been discussing.

Well, I played the odds.

“Samuel was so last week,” he replied, “which makes me wonder what else you’ve retained from our stimulating conversations.”

“Whatever Romeo-”

“Don Juan is a better comparison,” he replied. “What I asked while you were daydreaming was why are we spending 6th period as library assistants?” He pointed and said, “That one’s top shelf.”

“Because we signed up for it, bro,” I replied, handing him the book. He put it away without going up on tiptoes.

“Oh, we’re doing semantics,” Jordan replied. “That one’s yours by-the-way.”

I grunted and knelt to fill the book-sized hole in the row on the lowest shelf.

“I’m feel like getting the short end of this arrangement.”

“You’re closer to the ground. It would be stupid to switch,” Jordan replied, smiling his irritating, smug smile. “Anyway, my question more specifically is why did we sign up for library aide, and not yearbook or interruptive dance, or ceramics. I know for a fact you hate books”

“Do we have the option of taking interpretive dance?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I’d own that class if we did.”

“No doubt,” I agreed. He was good at everything else. “I hate reading books, not putting them away. You could have taken interpretive dance or hot yoga or whatever.”

“We needed at least one class together this semester,” he said.

“Well then, you have your answer,” I replied.

I gave the cart a push and faulty wheel decided that it was the appropriate time to connect with the carpet, and it promptly steered me into the nearest shelving unit. It was loud enough that Mr. Campbell looked up from his paper. I avoided making eye-contact with him as I righted the cart and pressed on towards the f-h aisle.

“It’s not my fault I don’t qualify for any of your AP classes,” I added.

“Isn’t it though?” he asked.

I glared, not quite THE LOOK, but moving into the periphery of its territorial waters. He winced slightly.

“Fine, put that away,” he said, holding his hands in front of his face in a futile gesture.

THE LOOK is the fully weaponized glare of my female ancestors, handed down from generation to generation. I softened my facial features from wound, down a few settings to stun.

“Okay, so I spend a semester shaking down Frosh for nickels and dimes to cover their fines, while spending time with my bestie,” Jordan said, sliding a book home. “I could think of worse. Campbell already likes me. It’ll be an easy A.”

And of course, he hates me. What’s new.

“I prefer the term platonic life partner to bestie,” I replied. Jordan had come up with that gem back in middle school.

“As do I, but it’s harder to fit into conversation,” he said. “We going to Sandeep’s party Saturday night?”

“Um, maybe?” I tried.

“Maybe is just your future no,” Jordan quipped.

I shrugged. He wasn’t wrong.

“You’ve got to come to at least one party this year,” he replied. He picked the cart up and moved it over the lump of carpet I’d been struggling with. We moved on to the I-K aisle, our cart now half-empty. “Maybe we can even find you a date to Junior Prom.”

“Are you trying to convince me not to go with you?” I replied.

“Look kid, someday you’ll meet that special someone-”

“Shut it!”

Mr. Campbell looked up and glared, but he lost interest with me when a man that looked like a skinny version of Santa Clause passed through the front door.

“Is today bring granddad to school day?” Jordan asked.

The man was slightly stooped at the shoulders and wasn’t more than an inch or two taller than me – which wasn’t saying much. He was bald on top, but the wispy white hair on the sides and back of his head were grown long like bookends to the flowing white beard that reached almost to the middle of his slightly paunchy midsection.

“Probably another escapee from Journey’s End or End of the Line or whatever that retirement home is called,” I answered. “He must have snuck past the nurses.”

“It’s Life’s Journey,” Jordan corrected, “but I like both of your versions better.”

“Why is Mr. Campbell pointing at me?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Jordan replied, “but now the fossil is headed right towards us.”

Dressed in a plain white V-neck shirt, impossibly loud Bermuda shorts and brown leather sandals that unfortunately showed off toes that had no business seeing the light of day, the man shuffled towards us.

“Bro, those toes…”

“That’s a man in dire need of a manicure and a prescription-strength antifungal cream,” Jordan answered through gritted teeth, while flashing a smile.

I gave smiling a try, but all I could get my face to do was that fake grin that my dad said made me look constipated and ruined all my class pictures. My heart rate jumped, and my cheeks got hot as Santa stopped right in front of me and studied me like a zoo exhibit. He adjusted the smudged wire-rimmed spectacles perched on his long, thin nose and turned his head to one side so he could squint at me even harder through his right eye.

“Ah, it is you Arthur. Thank the stars. I thought my homing spell failed again.” He leaned in way closer than necessary and whispered, “We’ve got to go. They’ve found you again.”

Uhhhhh…

“Uhhhhh…”

My eyes darted between the old man and bestie. Jordan grinned at my discomfort before stepping in.

“Sir, you appear to be lost,” Jordan said with passably realistic sympathy. “I regret to inform you that this is not your granddaughter, and we are not standing in your living room.”

The old man stopped dead in his tracks and his mouth dropped open. He looked like he had just seen a climate scientist get a standing ovation at a Republican rally.

“Bedivere? How can this be?” the old man finally asked.

“No sir, I’m Jordan. Are you looking for something in particular? I can probably scrounge you up a pudding cup, but you’ll have to promise to eat it on your walk home.”

“Fly me to Bermuda!” the man gasped. “How did you get here?”

“By bus, sir,” Jordan responded, strait faced. I clamped my lips together like a vice, but I couldn’t stop myself from smiling. “Roseville has a wonderful public transportation system.” He held up a finger for emphasis and continued, “And, the busses are electric, so the carbon footprint-”

The old man held up a hand, silencing Jordan. “Some traits appear to transcend time and space.” He glanced back at me and sighed loudly. “I forgot… you’re a girl again,” he said while scratching his chin.

Cool, delusions and casual sexism.

“Yeah, it’s crazy right?” I answered. “You wouldn’t believe the shock I had when I woke up this morning and tried to pee standing up.”

Somehow, his frown even deepened. “I’ve never appreciated your sense of humor, Arthur, and I find that you’re too headstrong when you’re female,” He narrowed his gaze and the wrinkles around his eyes became canyons. “The last thing we need at this juncture is another Maid of Orleans situation.”

“Not Arthur, man,” I answered. The headstrong part, well…

“I called you Wart once. Did you like that?” I shook my head no on principle. He stroked the spinach hanging from his chin in a contemplative manner before finally asking, “What if I just call you Artie?”

I gave him the beginnings of THE LOOK, and the sheer force of the gaze made him take a half-step back.

“Ah, well, let’s try this,” he said, and then he waived his hands in the air and said, “Memento.”

He snaked a finger three times in each of our faces before asking, “Well?” When neither of us responded, he widened his eyes in exasperation and asked, “Do you remember now?”

“I’m confused on what we are supposed to be remembering?” I answered honestly.

“Are we still talking about the bus?” Jordan asked. “The schedule can be confusing”

“I’d leave you here and return to Horseshoe Bay right now if your lives weren’t in such peril.” He shook his head and added, “I’m tempted too anyway.” He shook his head and said, “Stay here, ah, girl,” the crazy coot whispered. “I need to see if that harpy Thiton followed me here.”

“That sounds like an excellent plan, bro,” I said. “You can never be too careful about harpies.” I tried to make it sound supportive, but the statement kind of came out condescending. I totally meant it in a condescending way, but I didn’t want it to sound like I meant it to be condescending. I did my best constipated smile and took two steps back.

‘Yes officer, I did just judo-flip a ninety-year-old with hips like glass, but he squinted funny at me and called me Artie.’

Santa gave me that squinty-frowny disapproving look that adults tend to give me when I talk. That task completed, he ambled back towards the front door.

“Skinny Santa is completely off his rocker,” I whispered.

“Wouldn’t sleigh have worked better for that analogy?” Jordan answered.

“What?”

You called him Santa, so off his sleigh…” His voice went a little singsongy and he raised his eyebrows for effect. “Old timer would have worked better for off his rocker.”

Before Santa reached Mr. Campbell, the door swung open, and a tall blonde woman strode in and looked around indifferently before her gaze fell on us.

“I’m too old for this,” the old man said as his shoulders slumped.

Jordan smiled. “This may end up being way better than Interpretive Dance.”