The Silent Waters (Elements 3)

I took a sip and gagged.

Once again, she was wrong. She smiled, satisfied by my displeasure. “Your hair looks awful. You really shouldn’t let it air dry like that. You’ll catch a cold.”

No, I won’t.

“Yes,” she huffed. “You will.”

She always knew the words I didn’t say. Lately I wondered if she were a witch or something. If perhaps when she was a child, an owl showed up to her windowsill and dropped her an invitation to attend a school for witches and wizards, but then somewhere along the way she fell in love with a Muggle and came back to Wisconsin to choose love over true adventure.

If it were me, I’d never choose love over adventure.

I’d always accept the owl’s invitation.

That idea was ironic, seeing as how the only adventure I’d ever lived was through the pages of novels.

“What have you been reading?” she asked, reaching into her oversized purse and pulling out two turkey sandwiches. I couldn’t see the sandwiches because they were still in the brown paper Sweetest Addictions wrapped

all their food with, but I knew they were turkey. Mrs. Boone always kept our sandwiches the same: turkey, tomato, lettuce, and mayo on rye bread. Nothing more, nothing less. Even on the days I wanted tuna, I had to just pretend my turkey was fish.

She set one in front of me and the other she unwrapped, taking a large bite. For a tiny lady, she sure knew how to take big bites of food.

I placed my novel in front of her, and she sighed. “Again?”

Yes, again.

For the past month, I’d been rereading the Harry Potter series, which might’ve had something to do with the fact that I believed Mrs. Boone to be a witch. To be fair, she did also have the classic witch mole next to her nose.

“There are so many books in this world, and you find a way to read all the same ones over and over again. There’s no possible way the stories still surprise you after all this time.”

Obviously she hadn’t ever read or reread Harry Potter.

Each time was different.

When I had first read the books, I’d seen the excitement in the story.

As I reread them, I saw much more of the pain.

A person never reads an outstanding book twice and walks away with the same beliefs. An outstanding book always surprises you and awakens you to new ideas, new ways of looking at the world, no matter how many times the words have been read.

“I’m going to start believing you’re into Wicca,” she said, chowing down on her sandwich and sipping her tea. A peculiar thing for a witch to say to a Muggle, if you asked me.

Muffins came from under the table and rubbed against my leg to say hello. I bent down to pet her. Hello, friend. Muffins meowed before turning on her side for me to pat her belly. When I didn’t pat her the way she wanted me to, I swore she muttered a curse word at me in cat language, then she wandered off, probably to find my mother, who was a professional at petting Muffins.

“What’s wrong with your face?” she barked, narrowing her eyes at me.

I raised an eyebrow, confused.

She shook her head back and forth. “Your eyes look awful, like you haven’t slept in days. You should really have Katie bring you some makeup. You look horrid.”

I touched below my eyes. It was always worrisome when someone said you looked tired but you didn’t feel that way.

“Listen, Maggie. We must talk.” Mrs. Boone sat up straighter in her seat and cleared her throat. “What I mean is you must listen as I speak.”

I sat up straighter, too. I knew it must be serious because whenever she was going to be stern, her nostrils flared, which they were doing at that moment.

“You have to leave your house,” she said.

I almost laughed.