White Magic Spells to Hold You

CHRISSIE In the beginning was the word, and the word always had two syllables: trashcan, gutter, bubble on the water, waiting, always knowing, that it will pop. Here's something I remember from when I was little. My dad decided we should get a goat. He'd been in Tibet designing a system to draw water up a craggy mountain to a small village. The Tibetans used the goats for meat and milk and to carry things. One time, my dad woke up and a goat was lying next to him in his tent, eating his sleeping bag. He laughed so much, he woke everyone up at the camp. So when he came home, we drove over to a farm. I picked the first goat that walked up to us. It was white and cross-eyed. Vermonters have a reputation for not saying much. The farmer lived up to it. He took Dad's fifty bucks and went back into his house. Dad and I tied the rope around the goat and tugged her to the car. I sat in the backseat of the old Mustang with her. "Keep her still," Dad instructed, which made us both crack up, because we knew it was impossible. I called the goat Wilbur, after the pig in Charlotte's Web. "But it's a girl," my mom complained when we got home. "You can't call a girl Wilbur. Besides, it's not a pig." "Chrissie has poetic license," Dad said. Poetic license. The phrase stuck with me even though he hasn't. It means you can do whatever you want with words. *** "Chrissie!" My mom doesn't knock anymore. It's one of those things she's shed since we moved to California last week, like her brown hair and cooking meals. "Why are you just sitting here? Why don't you do something?" "There's nothing to do here." "Unpack, for goodness' sake." "I don't feel like it." "Write in your poetry notebook." "I just did. My poem sucks." "Don't say 'sucks.' " "My poem stinks." "I'm sure it's fantastic. Why don't you read it to me?" "I want to read it to Mr. Credenzo and see what he thinks." "E-mail it to him." "I'm not his student anymore." "He'd love to hear from you and you know it." I can't argue with that; my last day of class, he made me swear I'd send him poems. So I change the subject. "I want to hang out with Jason." "Call him, then." "Calling is not hanging out, especially when the person is your best friend your whole life and he lives across the country. Besides, he's not home. And don't tell me to e-mail because I IM'd him twice and he didn't answer." "Okay. Instead of pining away for Jason, maybe you need to make new friends." "How?" "There must be kids you'll like at your new school. Just smile at them and be terribly friendly. They won't be able to resist." The words terribly plus friendly sum it up. I do friendly terribly. Mom does it well. Even glaring at me, she's charming. Like Ava Gardner, the old movie star she was named after. "Did you notice that people don't wear clothes here? I mean, there's a girl in my English class who wore a jog bra to school. How can I smile at someone who's half naked?" "They dress that way because it's hot. If we were in Vermont right now, I'd be shivering and you'd be shoveling snow. Look at that sunshine flowing through your window." "It hurts my eyes." "You're making me very tired. Do you know that?" "It's that bleach they put on your hair. Bad chemicals. They permeate the skin." "These are highlights. Nothing permeated anywhere. Help me unload groceries, Chrissie, since you're not doing anything else. I bought a ton of food." "You mean we're not eating takeout?" "Give me a break. I just unpacked the dishes." I follow her down to the kitchen. Every wall in our new conEaston, Kelly is the author of 'White Magic Spells to Hold You', published 2007 under ISBN 9780375837692 and ISBN 0375837698.