Chapter 38
Dara doesn’t hesitate to return to Penango with us tonight.
The idea of being seen again by half the population, and sticking it to Robbie and her stepdad, is too thrilling for her to sleep on what we’ve told her and delay breaking the curse.
We’re going to fix the tree—like vandals cleaning graffiti under the threat of being caught, we’re going to erase our mistakes.
Because that’s the only thing we have in common—our mistakes.
Our connection to the tree isn’t a coincidence.
We’re not missing or crazy or dead.
We’re linked by love gone wrong.
We were just bitter.
No. Not bitter. Different.
We didn’t play Penango’s game of love. Our chances of success were calculated, and they weren’t good or fair. There was nothing we could do to make it work. High school dreams sometimes emerge at life’s lowest point. They shouldn’t be binding.
And while high school didn’t prepare me for love, it did teach me about inverse functions, which undo another function. When the function f turns the apple into a banana, the inverse function f -1 turns the banana back into an apple.
I’m banking on applying this theory to the Ardor Tree’s curse.
We return to Pennsylvania under a dying sun. The sky is still lit, but not for long.
We park at the Gregor Preserve’s entrance and step out of my truck in formation, a small army ready to face its oldest enemy. A hot wind rolls in and carries the sour tang of asphalt. The trees bend with it, taunting and watching us like a pack of wolves circling their prey.
“Never thought I’d be back here,” Dara says, gulping.
“You probably never thought you’d get cursed by a tree either,” Xander says.
“Ha. Ha.” Dara frowns.
“It’s actually not a bad place when no one can see you,” Xander adds. “There’s good swimming, hiking, and clean air. It’s a nature lover’s paradise.” He nudges her.
Dara laughs. “It’s not nearly as pleasant when half of town can’t see you. It’s just confusing. So speak for yourself.”
“Oh, I am speaking for myself.” Xander smirks. “And if we’re keeping score, I can confidently claim that I got the worst of this curse.”
“Because you didn’t put anyone in the heart,” I remind him.
“There was no one for me to love.” He throws up his hand. “I was just trying to have a moment with the tree like everyone else in town. Sue me.”
I sigh as I dig through the back of my truck. “Here.” I toss him an ice scraper. “Take this.”
He frowns. “What’s this for?”
“To carve a name into the tree.”
“Hmm.” He twirls it in his hands for an inspection.
Dara steps forward. “Got anything else?”
I pull out a crowbar from my tire-changing kit. “This should do.” I place it in her palm. She weighs it in her grip. “I’ll use one of those tools when you guys are done.”
Dara marches into the woods. Xander follows, practically skipping. I let them get ahead. I prefer to trail Xander. Even on the darkest paths, the bounce of his tight curls eases the tension in my muscles like jingle bells at Christmas.
But this time I’m met with a winter sadness. When Xander has all the boys in the world to fill the blank space in his heart, who will he choose?
The tree stands just as we left it. Its crowned branches are black against the sunset sky. Its roots curl along the ground like witch hands hunting for their next victim. The graffiti-covered drainage pipe oozes a fluorescent liquid from a love potion gone wrong.
Dara steps over the gnarled roots, continuing to lead our charge. “I don’t remember where I carved my boys suck message.” She flips her hair. The crowbar dangles at her side like a murder weapon.
“I don’t think it matters,” I say. “Maybe just write something new. Destroying my old message didn’t work for me.”
She nods, narrowing her lips. “What’ll it be, boys? Boys rule? Dara loves boys? Boys don’t suck? What works best with your fragile egos?”
Xander scoffs. “Let’s remember who the real enemy is here. We aren’t like those high school boys who rejected you.”
Dara laughs. “Who said I was rejected?” She leans back, grips the crowbar, and strikes the tree. “Maybe I just couldn’t find any boys up to my standards.”
A shiver runs down my spine as bark splinters through the air. One shard lands on my cheek, sparking the memory of my own fatal mistake, the one that set this all in motion.
I touch the healing wound on my forehead. The pink skin is smooth.
I grab Xander’s hand and pull him toward the center trunk, away from Dara’s relentless carving.
“Hurry.” I nudge him up the tree. “I don’t want to be out here when it gets dark.”
Xander hesitates to climb toward his heart, gripping the ice scraper. “Who should I write?” he asks, voice uneven. “In my new heart.”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Who was your high school crush?”
He scratches his head. “Does it have to be someone from then?”
“Well, yeah,” I say. “Don’t just write Timothée Chalamet or someone random.”
He sighs.
“Make it someone from Penango who you went to school with. It’s your best shot.”
He bites the inside of his cheek. “I wish I had some candy right now.”
I touch his shoulders. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m afraid. The last time I did this—”
“This time is different,” I insist. “It’s going to work. It’s like an inverse function. Math has never failed me before.”
His breath shudders. “But what if it doesn’t? What if things get worse?”
My hands slide up from his shoulders to cup his face. “They won’t. Trust me. The only thing to fear is things staying the same.”
His throat bobs. His eyes shine gold in the dimming light. “That’s my worst case.” His voice cracks. “The sameness, with the hope of change completely gone.” He bows his head.
I pull him into a hug. “We have to try,” I say softly. My gaze flickers to the carved hearts full of couples and futures behind him. “I want you to meet people. There’s so much to experience after you come out. It all gets better from here. But to get to better, we have to be brave.”
His warm tears drop onto my shoulder.
“Help me up,” he murmurs. He takes ahold of the trunk and digs his foot against the coarse bark. I lace my hands together and give him a boost toward the upper branches. He faulters for a moment but quickly finds his footing and vanishes into the leaves.
Dara appears, out of breath. “The deed is done,” she says. I take the crowbar from her. It’s warm from her grip.
“What did you write?”
“I went with the classic boys rule.”
I nod in affirmation. “The Ardor Tree appreciates tradition.”
“Your turn.”
I don’t hesitate. My carving requires no thought. I don’t need to rephrase or rethink, just redo. I go to the smooth, untouched bark where my old heart used to be. An open canvas.
Stetson + Murray.
I wish I could write someone new. That’s who I want to gift my heart—a boy far from Penango.
But I’m scared that writing a new name might make that person lose their ability to see me too.
I don’t want to ruin my chances with any boys before we even meet.
So I close my eyes and carve Murray’s name again, hoping the tree forgives me.
Once we’re all finished, we step back, gawking at the tree like it’s a windmill about to spin.
But the tree never moves.
“Do you think it worked?” Dara asks.
“It might take time,” I say. “Maybe a day or two. You were at Pinehurst when things changed the first time around. When was that? A few days after you wrote on the tree?”
“Hopefully it forgives faster than it curses,” Xander says.
“Who did you write?” I ask him.
“Andrew,” he says with a shrug. “I don’t even think he was gay. But he was cute.”
I cross my fingers.
Xander looks away.
“Y’all want to go to the Bean?” Dara says flatly. “I might as well enjoy the food while I’m back in town. We can watch Xander materialize over burgers.”
Xander sighs. “Can we stop at the pharmacy for candy first though?” he asks. “I need something sweet.”
They turn toward my truck. I track them through the trees, and the ice scraper in Xander’s hand reflects rays from the setting sun back at my eyes. They quickly shrink in the distance. I look over my shoulder one last time at the thick branches, searching, waiting for movements.
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.