Sophie and Elena and I exchange looks. We hardly ever open to this front page, the only page that’s not blank in the entire book. It’s one that we memorized the contents of long ago. But Joey places the book back on the ground and presses her fingers into the crease.
“I just thought we should review,” she says.
Her look, directly into my eyes, tells me she knows my secret. Or thinks she does anyway because there’s no way she can know.
“Who wants to go first?” She looks around the circle, and I bite my lip.
“We don’t need to read them. We know them by heart,” says Elena. She and Sophie are sitting away from us, as if to offer space, perhaps sensing a confrontation brewing.
“Who wants to go first?” repeats Joey.
“We’re bossy today,” says Elena. Then, after a beat, she says, “Fine.” And she scoots closer to the book. “Rule number one,” she reads. “When the trees whisper, listen.” On instinct, I look around. The aspens stand papery and attentive, as always.
Elena pauses, giving someone else the chance to read. When no one does, she continues. “Okay. Rule number two. Four will be initiated from each generation.”
Joey nods along, as if Elena’s a child learning to read.
“I’ll go,” says Sophie, turning the book in her direction. “Rule number three. Never channel without another present.”
She leans back reverently and turns the book to Joey, who traces a finger on the page. “Rule number four,” Joey says. “Our magic is benign. Benevolent when necessary. Never malevolent.”
I know the book is coming to me next, and I am starting to feel lightheaded. But I don’t let on. Instead, I lick my lips and start to read.
“Rule number five,” I say, staring down at the words. “Tell no one.”
I’m positive they can all see the trickle of sweat that’s formed at my hairline and is now making its way down toward my ear. I cannot look anywhere else but at the words. I can’t look at my friends. I don’t know if Joey knows, but she’s acting like she does. As if, by reading the rules, she can smoke me out.
Because, of these sacred rules, I’ve already broken one.
And I’m well on my way to breaking another.
15Elena
Elena is back at the Strike. Just as she’d hoped, the film crew is here. There are no other drinking options in town, so it didn’t take her long to guess where they might go.
The bar is as cliché as it is grimy. It stinks of beer, and the little twinkle lights are supposed to be charming, but a few of them are dead, giving the whole strand the look of a hockey player’s mouth. The patrons, new to this kind of town, look out of place in their bright, short-sleeve button-downs and nineties-style hairstyles. Pure LA, and yet, they seem wide-eyed with awe as they hover over a real working jukebox. Maybe they can’t believe that a place so remote, sosmall, could still exist in the world. And sure, anyone would be enamored for a few days. Give it a month, though, and you’ll be bored out of your mind. Better yet, give it seventeen years.
Elena catches Ken’s eyes from behind the bar. He looks surprised to see her there. She’s reminded again of the feeling of constant surveillance in a town where people have little else to do but watch each other. She smacks on a smile and orders a double Buffalo Trace, neat. He doesn’t say anything but keeps his eye on her as he pours. Elenapays and turns away, bumping into a twentysomething woman as she does. The woman apologizes, though she has done nothing wrong, and Elena jumps at the chance to start a conversation. She is a production assistant, apparently, and is as chatty as she is young. As they talk, Elena doesn’t reveal that she’s a background actor. Instead, she chooses to play up her localness.Yes, I grew up here, in the mountains. Yes, it was such a unique childhood. Hiking trails right out my back door!This faux-rosy depiction of her adolescence throws her inadvertently into real memories. The four of them—Quinn, Joey, Sophie, and Elena—were freezing their asses off as they lowered their bottom halves into an ice-blue alpine lake. Summer days spent sitting on the curb and drinking Dr Pepper, tossing Reese’s Pieces into each other’s mouths. Summoning cigarettes to the spell circle and, later, lying to her mom about the smell. Afternoons in junior year English class, holding eye contact for just a bit too long.
She is lost in these dregs of the past—the reminder of which she blames on the carvings under Quinn’s deck—when someone speaks quietly, almost intimately, into her ear.
“You’re not one of mine.”
When she turns, she nearly chokes on her drink. It’s Phillip Granger. The director. He wears a black ball cap on top of a pile of Wonder Bread–white hair and ears that stick out sideways. Not handsome but distinctive. She turns toward him, slowly enough to catch the production assistant darting away, lizard-like, behind her. Standing next to Phillip Granger are two other people she recognizes. Nicola Bianco and Cal Pierce. Nicola is petite and sprinkled with gold jewelry, owl eyes glancing about. She looks mildly curious, like a child at the zoo for the first time. Cal, on the other hand, is looking straight at Elena and beaming with boyish white teeth. Veneers? She can’t tell and doesn’t want to stare too long. They are a trio of fame and untouchability.
“Not yoursyet,” she replies. She extends her hand into the space between her chest and Phillip Granger’s. “Elena Alvarez.” He responds to her flirtation with smiling eyes. They shake. Elena raises her glass to all three celebrities and says, “Welcome to Whisper Ridge. The last place in America where you can still smoke inside. Not because it’s legal, but because no one gives a shit.”
For the next forty-five minutes, she keeps Phillip Granger’s attention by asking as many questions about him and his career as she can think of. He is responsive, even attentive. Elena knows she is attractive and delightfully charismatic when she needs to be. Her charms seem to be working especially well tonight. At one point, he even says to her,“Call me Phil,”and she almost high-fives herself under the bar. She is on her game more than she thought she would be. The bourbon is helping a bit. Just as more drinks are ordered, Elena tells them all she’s actually a background actor in the film. She’s working up to tellingPhilthat she has a demo reel she can email him, in case he needs fresh-face talent for future projects. But before she can, Ken yells, “Last call!” far too loudly, like this is a real bar in a real city. A groan of disappointment moves through the crowd. It’s only ten o’clock.
Slightly drunk, Phillip Granger steps onto the rung of his barstool. “Bedtime, kids,” he yells over the din. “We have an early start tomorrow.”
It’s patronizing. A few people laugh, but it’s halfhearted, as if they are only humoring him. Elena gets the sense that they’re all used to this kind of thing from him. Then he turns to her. He is flushed with alcohol, his words slurred together and his movements unpredictable. A hand lands on her bare arm, squeezes.
“What are you doing tonight?” he asks, like it’s a secret.
She catches a small gesture to her left. Nicola Bianco taps a fingertip on Cal’s forearm, and they share a look that tells her this isn’t their first time witnessing Phillip Granger attempting to pick up a stranger at a bar.
“Phil, buddy,” Cal cuts in. “We should get some sleep.” Elena is grateful she doesn’t have to respond.
