In elementary school, much like today, witches were the hot new thing. I think Sabrina the Teenage Witch was the most likely explanation, but, whatever the reason, my class was obsessed with gaining or recognizing our innate magical ability. We formed a club of aspiring witches, with the richer kids purchasing kits and things to share among the group.
There are a lot of uncanny things about that time period – the weird way one of the spells I cast worked, for example – but it’s the fact that this group of friends formed at all that sticks with me. Several young girls of different social and economic statuses came together, all out of the desire to work magic. Those who couldn’t provide for themselves were provided for. Our spells were benign, usually helpful things; we worked them together or separate, and informed one another of the results in hushed whispers, delighting in our abilities.
The club didn’t last long, but the memories of Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board, the necklace hidden from parents, the anxious flutter of a heart in anticipation of changing the world do.
Anyway, here’s a drabble.
(a.) From Latin oraculum, for divine announcement
Hard to interpret, as if from an oracle.
You meet the best fortune-teller in the third-grade class in the back corner of the school library, a bucket hat tugged low over her face to hide it in shadow.
“What’ve you got?” she asks, thrusting a hand forward.
With a glance over your shoulder, you deposit three sticks of gum.
She clicks her tongue. With a sigh, you add two quarters and a half-eaten jawbreaker.
With that, she pulls out the cootie catcher and asks you the required questions. The ritual finished, she flips over the paper and reads you your fortune. You shiver. It’s true.