Spellbound

by Adrian Fahy

Written in blood-red ink, the B- goaded me from the corner of the page. It wasn't the result of an in-class test, but a mark of my dwindling future. B for barrister, a career too prestigious for underachievers. B was also for St. Bartholomew's, the hellhole I called school. It's not clear if St. Barts creates idiots or just recruits them. If you don't enjoy spit-ball wars or making flatulent noises with your armpits, it's not the school for you. I dreamed of private education, where they treated academia with the reverence it deserved. But born of a single mother on housekeeper's wages, this wasn't to be. If I wanted more from life, I'd have to follow the rules; work hard, get the best grades, and, by the end of my six-year sentence, I'd have earned a bite of the upper crust. I lived by this mantra, achieving the highest Grade Point Average in the school's history. Then came exam year, the final, most crucial year of a person's life. It was also the year I met Joy.

 When Mrs. Harris introduced our new classmate, I knew she was special. It wasn't her eyes that got me—the blue suns that lit up the classroom—or her glassy skin. No, I was bewitched by something more mundane; the pink ribbon nestled in her hair. It was like something a doll would wear. That ribbon, gleaming with innocence, told me everything I needed to know.

Joy and I had something in common; we didn't belong there. The girls of St. Bartholomew's had two talking points; vodka and necking. Then there were the boys, leering at her like hungry hyenas. They'd strut over, shirts hanging out, and badger her to "come out next weekend, we're all getting blitzed." Joy, blushing, would say, "I don't really drink." But she couldn't hide her smile. You see, women are wired to self-destruct. They seek ruin in vulgar, uncouth boys, blind to the gentlemen standing before them.

Consequently, my attempts to woo her with polite banter went unnoticed. Needless to say, so did I. This niggled like a thorn in my heart and hijacked every thought. Studying became impossible. Desperate to prize the clamp from my brain, I recalled stories I'd read online; young men using black magic to capture a woman's heart. It was ridiculous, but my exams were fast approaching, and I needed my mind back. Before long, my desk was smothered in printouts, 'how-to' guides on conducting wiccan ceremonies. Reading the ingredients, you might mistake it for a vegetable soup recipe. One ingredient, however, proved trickier to procure; 'an article of your beloved's clothing.' 

That's where Billy Neary came in. Billy, my dope-loving classmate, found himself indebted to some questionable characters. So, when offered fifty euros for a strange but simple task, he didn't hesitate. Raiding the girls' locker room for an item of clothing is easy. Not getting caught, however, proved more complex. A shrill scream echoed through the corridor on Tuesday morning while the girls were busy with volleyball practice. "Pervert!" A door banged open, followed by footsteps screeching on the vinyl floor. As I hung by my locker, Billy shot past, clutching a pink ribbon in his fist. A short, screaming girl chased behind him. "You creep!" As Billy crashed through the emergency exit, a crowd flocked around like flies to manure, hungry for scandal. The girl, revelling in the spotlight, explained how she, intending to use the locker room toilet, caught Billy plundering some girl's locker. Why had she chosen that moment to answer nature's call? Was God meddling in my plans, dissuading me against the dark arts? Maybe. But of all the things Billy might have stolen, he chose her pink ribbon. If God wasn't giving me a sign, somebody else was.

After school, I slipped into the alleyway behind the corner shop. It looked like something from a gangster movie—a large dumpster sandwiched between red-bricked walls, vomiting litter onto the ground. I paced the alley, fingering the fifty euro note in my pocket. Where was Billy? We agreed on four-thirty sharp. Before I could phone him, a hand shot out from behind an alcove and seized me by the collar. I tried prizing it off, but Billy's grip was like a vice. He pulled me towards him, our foreheads pressing together.

"You prick", he hissed, "my parents got a call from the school; they want to expel me."

 His rancid breath, drenched in tobacco, made my stomach churn. "I'm sorry," I said. "Look, I'll double the price."

This angered him even more. "What good is that? Do you know what my parents will do to me if I get expelled?"  Whatever it was, they should have done it years ago. "They're meeting Dempsy in his office tomorrow morning," he said. "You'll be there too. Tell them how you put me up to this. Maybe they'll all go easier on me."

Were my heart not pounding against his knuckles, I would have laughed in his face. What's the politest term for 'no chance in hell?'

"Look, Billy; I have my reputation to consider; I—". The alley spun as Billy swung me around, pinning me against the wall. The smack of hard concrete knocked the wind from my chest.

"Fine," he said, "then I've got nothing to lose. Who cares if I get done for putting some snob in the hospital?" A crazed look flashed in his eyes. He wasn't bluffing.

"Okay, Okay. I'll do it."

His grip loosened. "You better," he said. "First thing after roll call".

I fixed my collar in a weak bid for dignity. Only in our fallen world could barbarism eclipse intellect. "Now," I said, extending my hand, "the ribbon?"

He regarded my open palm, then pursed his lips. "I still want the money."

"What?" Was I being hustled by an idiot?

He shrugged. "I have debts to pay. You mentioned doubling the price?" I should have protested, but he was as reasonable as a landmine. Gritting my teeth, I pulled out two fifties and snapped the ribbon from his hand. "It's a Pleasure doing business with you," he said with a smirk. I could have pummelled him. Before leaving, he gestured to the ribbon and said, "I have to ask, are you, like, into some freaky stuff or something?"

I thought for a moment, then offered a thin-lipped smile. "Sort of."  He would understand soon enough.

As I raided the kitchen for ingredients that night, doubt crept in like a silent thief. What would people say if they saw me? Me, the academic, peering into a bowl of water, where chunks of garlic bobbed and sank while slimy egg yolk unfurled around them. A black candle stood beside the bowl, transforming the kitchen table into an altar. Outside, the moon gleamed. I glimpsed my reflection in the kitchen window, a pink ribbon in my hand, uttering bizarre chants. How did it come to this?

Snap out of it. You only have an hour 'til Mother's shift ends. Get it done.

Sighing, I bottled my doubts, stretched out the ribbon, and began the ritual.

Afterwards, I tidied up, slumped upstairs and collapsed onto my bed. One question niggled at me; was idiocy contagious? If my twelve-year-old self knew that, six years later, he'd be in the kitchen casting spells, he'd never set foot in that school. I shut my eyes and fantasised about good grades and college applications. But the darkness twisted and morphed, spelling out, in bold black letters, APPLICATION DENIED. Was it an omen? If so, I wouldn't wish to survive the night.

But I did survive. Morning came, and we assembled for roll call. The boys grunted in response to their names while the girls, chatting amongst themselves, barely answered. The teacher called Joy's name; silence. My heart leapt. Calm down; it's probably a coincidence. Then, a loud shriek pierced through the room. It came from one of the girls as she sat gaping at her phone. Her friend leaned in to investigate. A similar reaction; "Oh my God!" Soon, all the girls huddled together, gawking at the screen. "Send me that picture," demanded one of them. A ripple of buzzing devices followed as the image broadcasted across the classroom. The commotion spilled out onto the corridors. Some boys shoved the image in their friends' faces, making them gag. Others shook their heads like men in mourning.

 "Man, it's such a waste," said one. I would've been all over her."

  "I can't even look at it," said the other. It's disgusting."

  I smiled to myself. If only they knew. The elation I felt was that of a God—not one who nurtures worlds but one who destroys them. While revelling in the ruckus, I spotted my old pal Billy slumped in a chair outside Mr. Dempsey's office. He sprang to his feet when I approached. "Thank God. You need to get in there. I was listening through the door. It's not looking good."

I clapped him on the shoulder. "Worry not,” I said, "I'm here for my punishment." He didn't return my smile. I gripped the doorknob, stopping just short of twisting it open. "By the way," I said, "did you hear about Joy?"

"What?" he snapped, pinning me with his eyes like I was liable to flee.

"Check your phone," I said, "the picture's doing the rounds."

Billy wrung his hands with enough vigour to inflict a friction burn. "I don't care, you're just stalling."

I said, "Trust me, you'll want to see this."

Muttering to himself, he whipped out his phone and swiped the screen with his thumb. His furrowed brows stretched into a look of wide-eyed revulsion. Without speaking, he turned the screen towards me. I winced. Joy was barely recognisable beneath a mass of warts. Huge blistering lumps swallowed her face, threatening to erupt. Some were already oozing, the yellow liquid glimmering in the camera's flash. In the text beneath the image, Joy implored her friend for advice and begged her not to share the picture.

Billy gawped at me. "You did this."

I shrugged. "If I did anything, it was thanks to you. That's what I'm here to tell Dempsy, right?"

I reached for the door again, but Billy grabbed my shoulder and yanked me back.  "I don't know what kind of sick crap this is, but I want nothing to do with it." There was a quiver in his voice. "We never even spoke, got it?"

I rubbed my chest in a wounded gesture. "Well, if that's how you feel," I said before turning on my heels and strolling down the hall. Without turning, I shouted behind me, "Pleasure doing business with you." Thus, our wonderful partnership had come to an end.

 Joy never returned. Her absence was like a ray of light piercing through the fog. Finally, I could think, breathe, and, most importantly, study. Time danced ahead. After a lifetime of waiting, my exams came and went. The only proof of their existence is a sheet of paper noting my exceptional grades, which, though pleasing, is hardly surprising. Things might be very different if I followed my heart, that deceiver, and willed Joy to love me. Requited love demands commitments and distractions no student can afford. Instead, I gave us both a gift. Wherever Joy is, she is far from the demons of St. Bartholomew's, and we’re both free to follow our potential. Our paths may cross again, though, if I'm honest, absence makes the heart impassive. Right now, there are more important things. Dozens of admission letters sit sprawled across my desk as I decide which college to choose and which to reject. Still sitting here, I twist her ribbon around my finger, its silk edges caressing my skin. A piece of her remains here, frozen in time, forever mine.

Adrian Fahy is a writer living in Tipperary, Ireland, inspired by everyone from Dostoevsky to Stephen King. He has been previously published in Yellow Mama, as well as the online magazine Horrortree and the crime blog The Yard.