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“Watch it. That’s my ragtag Drama Club you’re talking about,” I grumbled into the back of my wrist. The Sycamore Gorge West High Drama Club was the most the school had to offer, thanks. I loved it even if it was shitty and poorly directed and none of the folks involved were talking to me anymore.
“You have to sit with us. You can’t curse a fuckboy with us and share a sob story without being one of us, Sideways Pike. You ain’t got a choice.”
Julian had found a strange, Ren-faire-type pair of sixty-somethings who worked as beekeepers and candlemakers, and their candles looked like set pieces from Hocus Pocus or Practical Magic. Long, fat, oozing candles. Witchy candles. Candles that’d make you feel gother than Wednesday Addams at a Bauhaus concert. I took a few red ones and stuffed them into my pockets. If I was gonna attempt a stay-off-my-fucking-back spell, I’d need to feel maximum amounts of goth.
I tried to pick the third option, which was listening to Mr. Scratch awkwardly work his way around my circulatory system, which he clearly thought inferior to flowing between paper signatures. It’s similar, I think, he was saying, from the inside of the top of my head. You’ve got a spine. And skin—plenty of devils have books made of skin. It’s usually stretched and shaved, and very flat, and without any blood. But it’s similar enough. It’s very nice in here, really. He hated it. Clearly, he hated it. Better than him loving it a lot, I guess.
