Page 17 of Enchanted to Meet You

“And I will,” Derrick said. “But it’s a little hard when you won’t let me tell her the truth.”

“Just stick to the plan.” The caller’s voice softened. “If you stick to the plan, everything should work out fine.”

Derrick didn’t express his doubts about that. The plan had been made before he’d known that Jessica Gold had skin that looked as soft as silk, and eyes that sparked like fireworks when she laughed. And how much he liked the sound of that laughter.

“How does she seem?” the caller surprised him by asking.

When Derrick replied, he kept his tone carefully neutral. “Good. A little confused, and possibly a bit frightened, but willing to take on the assign—”

“Not the Gold woman,” the caller said. “The other one.”

“Oh.” Of course. Derrick cleared his throat as he watched a blue light flicker in one of the rooms in Jessica’s cottage. She’d turned on the television. He wondered what she was watching, then found that he didn’t care. Whatever it was, he wished he was inside, watching it with her, preferably on a wide, soft bed. But a couch would be fine, too. “I haven’t seen her yet.”

“Will she be ready in time, do you think?” The caller’s voice was unsteady.

“I don’t know.” Derrick surprised himself with the honesty of his answer. He watched the blue light in Jessica’s house dance and wave. “She’ll have to be, won’t she?”

“Yes,” said the voice on the other end of the line, sounding sadder than he’d ever heard it. “We have no other choice.”

Jessica

Journal Entry from 2006

Always remember: what thou give to thy neighbor will be returned to thee threefold.

Goody Fletcher,Book of Useful Household Tips

“I know what you did,” Rosalie said.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

I wasn’t lying, either. A lot had happened since that terrible day I’d found out Billy intended to give up his college scholarship to follow me to New York.

I’d headed straight home from school and consulted Goody Fletcher’s book on how to reverse a love spell.

I’d spent the next few weeks carrying the tip of a turnip root around in my bra. I’d cleaned my entire house from top to bottom (to the surprised delight of my parents) to encourage the “removal” of negative energy, as well as lit a candle and left it to burn overnight (in a plate where it was unlikely to catch any curtains on fire), wishing Billy’s ardor for me to melt away like the candle wax. I even wrote his name on a slip of paper and stuckit in the freezer (since we didn’t have an icehouse), all while patiently explaining to Billy over and over that, while I still wanted to be friends, I was no longer interested in a romantic relationship. He needed to go to Notre Dame in the fall like he’d planned, and live his best life.

None of it worked. Billy still stubbornly showed up almost every night to throw pebbles at my window and, when I pretended to be asleep, sobbed and called my name until I finally gave up and came downstairs to meet him. The last thing I needed was him waking up my parents, not to mention the neighbors.

I had dark circles and bags under my eyes from lack of sleep. My grades had taken a massive nosedive, and I’d put on a ton of extra weight from all the Snickers bars I was comfort eating.

My parents were planning a huge eighteenth birthday party for me at Mama Giovanni’s on Saturday night (not myactualbirthday, which fell on Valentine’s Day, the following Tuesday), and I was afraid to invite anyone except my closest friends, since I knew if Billy found out about it he was going to show up and ruin it.

Obviously Rosalie had seen the existential angst on my face, sensed something was up, and followed me into the girls’ room to do battle.

“You knowexactlywhat I mean.” She was so angry she’d forgotten to snap the gum she habitually chewed. “I know you used a love spell on Billy Walker, because there’s no way he, of all people, would ever fall for a hot mess like you.”

“First of all,” I said, snagging a paper towel to dry my hands from the dispenser. I hoped she couldn’t see that my fingers were shaking. “The name-calling is unnecessary. And second of all, this is Connecticut. Where would I even get a love spell?”

“Cut the bullshit, Jessica.” Rosalie’s lip gloss, like everything else about her, looked perfect. She was right: there was no way,except through the use of witchcraft, that a big slob like me should have gotten Billy Walker over her. It defied the natural order of things. “I know when someone is screwing around with magic. My eleventh great-grandmother was accused of witchcraft, right here in Connecticut. She would have been hanged for it, too, if she hadn’t been rich enough to bribe the judge to banish her instead.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Wow. So does that mean you’re a witch, too?”

“What do you think?” Rosalie sent me a withering look.

Okay. So Rosalie Hopkins—cheerleader, president of the senior class, and shoo-in for prom queen—was a witch.

But maybe... just maybe... this was the answer to my prayers.