Page 93 of Within These County Lines

Then I spot something. A blackened mark on the bark, as if a lightning bolt pierced the leaves above us to strike one lone spot. I brush away the soot from the trunk and peel back hidden layers of time. I read the carving:

Louise and Abigail.

I freeze. Droning bees enter the air around me, their buzz a warning sent from the tree to get moving or I might be stung.

Just like before when I couldn’t tell if there were other boy couples on the tree, this could be any Louise and Abigail from Penango.

But I can be certain this is Louise and Abigail the witches, because this marking isn’t inside a heart.

Their names are at the center of the familiar pentacle.

39

I wake the next morning with no news from Dara or Xander about a broken curse. Xander doesn’t even send his usual video vlogs. Not even a selfie of him covered in Starburst wrappers.

The lack of notifications presses against my chest like a weight, deflating me back into my mattress. Another day floating aimlessly through the throes of a Penango summer without a light guiding me to shore.

Even my aging earbuds refuse to reach a full charge, and a fresh crack in their case forecasts their impending expiration.

Last night, we dragged out dinner as long as possible, keeping Xander and Dara in public, testing fate. We hoped the waitress would eventually acknowledge Xander, or the chef would give a nod to Dara. Some proof that the tree forgave us.

But they were ignored. Nothing happened.

We left the Bean preaching patience. It’s my least favorite word these days. More waiting. More built-up anxiety. Everything is relying on patience. I guess if a decades-old curse was going to break, it wasn’t going to happen in the time it takes to eat a burger.

I roll over and check my phone again. There’s still nothing from Xander. But there is a new email from my counselor. I sit up, rubbing my eyes as I read:

I’ve prepared your transcript and my recommendation letter for the scholarship committee. Please send me your second letter and essay as soon as possible.

The message shoots me out of bed like a lightning bolt.

The essay.

My limbs go cold. I’ve been so occupied with Xander and Murray that I forgot to start my essay.

I open my laptop and log in to the Tennessee housing portal to get myself back on track.

I can already hear Murray’s voice in my head, the same one that haunted my entire college application process last fall. It didn’t exactly cheer me on. No proud hugs. No “I’m happy for you.” Just him yelling at me for even thinking about leaving Penango, like it was some personal attack.

I swore I wouldn’t let a boy ruin this last chance at escape.

I’m starting to learn my lesson.

Kind of.

A red dollar amount flashes on the screen, bold and blinking, beneath a warning:

Last day to pay your housing deposit to reserve your spot in fall housing. Nonrefundable.

I run the numbers in my head. The deposit is basically the entire amount of money I made so far this summer.

But the bigger problem is that I need both the deposit and the scholarship to make Tennessee happen. If I pay the deposit right now and don’t get the scholarship, I’m screwed. If I don’t pay and get the scholarship, I’m still screwed. These decisions aren’t mutually exclusive. I need both.

I stare at the blinking price until my vision fuzzes over, then click Submit Payment with an aggressive track-pad slam. The confirmation message pops up immediately:

Payment received. Expect communication about your housing soon. Applications are processed in the order they are received.

In summary, more patience required.