The Cost of All Things by Lehrman,Maggie
PART I
FIVE DAYS AFTER
There’s a hekamist who lives in the run-down cluster of houses behind the high school. Everyone knows that. Lots of people have gotten spells from her over the years—study cheats and beauty touch-ups and good luck auras. Not me. The only spell I’ve ever taken, nearly ten years ago, was made for me by a hekamist in Boston. I remember her sterile-looking office and the slice of dry toast she put on a plate in front of me. I remember crying so hard I could barely swallow the toast.
But it worked and I stopped crying and here I am.
This hekamist works out of her kitchen. The curtains are cheap and there are water stains on the ceiling, but it’s neat. The hekamist herself wears a tattered housecoat. She offers me a cup of tea and I say yes, even though I know you’re never supposed to drink or eat anything from strangers—let alone from a hekamist. But it seems rude not to.
My left wrist aches. Inside, under the muscle and bone. An old pain. My side effect. I clutch the wrist with my other hand under the table.
“Love spells don’t work, you know,” the hekamist says, dunking what looks like regular Lipton tea bags into two brightly colored mugs. “Whoever it is, they’ll kiss you, they’ll say the words, they’ll believe it. But you won’t. Love needs struggle.” She smiles at me, a distracted smile, as if she’s not sure for a second who I am or why I’m in her kitchen, and I focus on the gap between her two front teeth so as not to look in her eye and think of Win and love and struggle. “Of course I’ll sell it to you. But that’s my disclaimer.”
“I’m not here for a love spell,” I say.
She hands me one of the mugs of tea and raises her eyebrows. “Oh, I’ve assumed. Silly me, silly me. Tell me, then. A prom makeover? Calculus for the AP test?”
I’m glad for the heat of the mug in my hands; it distracts me from the pain in my wrist and keeps me from shivering all over. I could change my mind—say anything. Tell her I want luck or confidence. Beg for a little help with the SATs. Ask for a gift for Jess or Diana, something temporary and fun. But I’ve made it this far—I’m so close to finishing this. Just a little while longer and I’ll never have to feel this way again.
As if the walls are closing in on me, even when I’m outside. As if the air is thinner than it used to be, as if every gasp brings less and less oxygen into my lungs. I want to cry, but if I start, I’m afraid of what will happen. I’m afraid of what I’ll become.
Diana always teased me for not wanting to talk about my feelings. True, but that never meant I didn’t have any. Only meant I didn’t want to let them out all at once, let them take me over. And right now, I can’t hold on any longer.
Just like nine years ago, I need this.
I take a deep breath and will the tears back. “I want you to make me forget my boyfriend.”
The hekamist sips her tea. Looks at me. I can’t bring myself to lift my mug to my mouth.
“Permanently,” I say. “None of this temporary crap.”
“Permanent is more expensive. Let’s say . . . five thousand dollars.” I nod. Perfect. “Well, if you have the money, I can do that. Of course. Can brew it right now, in fact—you’ll take it before bedtime, be emptied out in no time—forever.”
“Thank you.” The relief is huge, a wave that almost knocks me down. Not to have to think of Win.
No more picking me up for school in his truck. No more looking into my eyes at Homecoming, telling me he loves me. No more seeing him in the front row of my performances, watching me, glowing only for me. No more kisses and promises and plans. No more love.
No more last night on the beach. No more words in anger. No more waking up to the call from his mother. No more long walk home from the beach with sand and seaweed in my hair, stomach churning, eyes too pinched and dry to cry. All the pain of the past five days—gone.
The hekamist’s hand taps the table for my attention. “But there’s a cost.”