The Rosemary Spell by Virginia Zimmerman Read Free Book Online Page A

strange.”
    â€œIt’s pretty different, that’s for sure,” Shelby says.
    She’s waiting for me to offer more of an explanation, but I don’t know what to say. My throat tightens like I might cry.
    â€œYeah. Really different,” I choke out. “I gotta go.”
    â€œOkay.” She sounds uneasy. “But call me back if you want.”
    I nod but can’t speak, so I just hang up. I use all my strength to hold tears at bay. I thrust the book back into the cupboard, where it had waited for who knows how long to come out and confuse me and torment me. I slam the door shut.
    In the morning, I stand in the middle of my room, biting the inside of my cheek and trying to decide whether or not I should take the diary to school. When the honk summons me, I tear down the stairs to the front door, but then I pivot and dash back up. Yank open the cupboard and grab the book. The cracked leather cover feels like skin. I don’t want to touch it. I shove the book into my backpack.
    I pull the front door closed behind me and climb into the Steiners’ back seat.
    â€œHi, Michelle.” The name is awkward in my mouth. “I thought your mom was driving.”
    â€œShe had to be at work early,” Adam grumbles.
    â€œThis is great, actually.” I unzip my backpack. “I can show you what we found in the diary.”
    â€œWhat did we find?” Adam twists to look at me over his shoulder.
    My memory of the afternoon in the library has gone fuzzy around the edges. Why can’t I remember what we thought was so strange? “Was it writing?”
    I open the book to the notes Adam made in class.
Rosemary remembers. Rosemary is an herb . . .
And back again to my handwriting, the line from
Hamlet
perched neatly at the top of a page, a page that is otherwise blank.
    I look up at Adam. His mouth is open slightly, as if he’s forgotten what he was going to say. He faces front and runs a hand through his hair.
    â€œI can’t look while I’m driving, Rosie,” Shelby says. She steers around the curve on River Road, her eyes straight ahead, her hands perfectly positioned on the wheel.
    I keep a hand on the book, waiting for a chance. Maybe at a traffic light. I look past Shelby to the island. The bare trees of winter make it look forlorn and incomplete.
    Last time the three of us went there, we paddled through the leaves drifting on the water. Shelby and I worked the oars while Adam lounged in the front of the boat and sang loudly and badly in made-up Italian.
    We tied up the boat and carried our picnic to the rosemary patch, which Shelby calls the Rosie patch. While we ate, we plotted a play version of some book we were reading. I don’t remember what it was. We were always planning plays and casting them and collecting costumes and props and then the actual play would only take about three minutes, and the Steiners wouldn’t be able to make it, and Mom would gush about how we’d done such a great job, and we’d start in on the next one.
    â€œDo you guys have Mr. Cates today?” Shelby asks.
    â€œYeah. We’re meeting in the library.”
    â€œFor biography research,” Adam adds.
    Shelby sighs. “I loved that class. It was way better than ninth-grade English. Who’re you doing for your project?”
    â€œConstance Brooke,” I answer.
    â€œReally?” Shelby glances at me in the rearview mirror.
    â€œYeah, because of the diary,” I explain.
    She swoops into the drive in front of the school. Adam’s already climbing out of the car.
    â€œI really want to show you—” I start, but the person behind us honks.
    â€œSorry.” She tucks her hair behind her ears. “Later, okay?”
    We stand together and watch Shelby pull away.

    Mr. Cates is waiting with Mrs. Wallace in the reference section. The rest of our class is already scattered around a handful of square tables for