The Alchemy of Forever

Kailey, it seems, wasn’t the most diligent student, but I have no idea if she wasn’t smart or was simply disinterested.
    I exit Kailey’s English class—Shakespeare I—and let myself be pulled along with the river of students toward the cafeteria. It’s a large, circular room flooded with natural light, its walls almost entirely made of glass.
    Searching the faces of the crowd, I suddenly panic. Some people look vaguely familiar, but I don’t see any of the girls whose faces I memorized last night. I don’t even see Noah or Bryan—in my entire long life, I have never felt more out of place.
    “What do you think you’re doing?” I hear the voice in my ear at the same time I feel a hand grab hold of my elbow.
    Whirling around, I recognize the elbow tugger: It’s Leyla Clark, Kailey’s best friend. I plaster a smile on my face to cover my surprise. “Hi, Leyla.”
    “Why, hello, Kailey ,” she mocks, turning me around and marching me away from the cafeteria. I’m mesmerized by her skirt, a colorful, patchwork affair that looks handmade. I don’t question where we’re going—I’m so relieved that I don’t need to enter the cafeteria by myself that I’d gladly go anywhere.
    “I’m so glad you’re back. You feeling okay? Bryan said you were sick. Actually, I should thank you for giving me an excuse to talk to him!” She keeps chattering all the way through the empty drama wing, till we reach a narrow staircase. For a flash, I’m reminded of the staircase at Emerald City. I’m gripped by the sensation that, like that night, I’m about to cross a threshold.
    “What’s wrong with you? Everyone’s waiting!” Leyla gives an impatient smile and leads me up the creaky stairs. She ducks behind a curtain, and I follow her into a small, secret room.
    The smell of Chinese food and the sound of laughter hit me as I walk in. “Hey, Kailey! Welcome back!” says one girl, her ivory cashmere sweater complementing her coffee-colored skin. I recognize her as Chantal Nixon. She’s decidedly preppy, unlike the rest of Kailey’s friends.
    “Thanks,” I say, joining their circle on the cushy carpet. The room is covered in graffiti and a swirling collage. I think I recognize Kailey’s style in several of the paintings: a girl lying under a tree, a purple bicycle, a deer with flowers and ribbons in its antlers.
    Piper Lindstrom and Madison Cortez are here, too, and I congratulate myself on my successful Facebook research. They both look vaguely rock-and-roll, with ripped skinny jeans and T-shirts for bands I’ve never heard of.
    I immediately recognize Nicole as well, the girl who’d given me a dirty look that morning in biology. She’s not, I notice, eating Chinese food out of the takeout containers like the other girls. Instead she’s got a wooden bowl full of salad. Her style is upscale hippie, with comfortable, expensive-looking leather shoes and a soft, green top.
    In the coven we all had defined roles: Cyrus was the tyrannical leader; I was his subservient love; Jared was Cyrus’s yes-man and enforcer; Amelia, his doting sidekick. Sèbastien moved behind the scenes, and Charlotte served as my best friend. I wonder what role Kailey played in her group.
    Piper hands me a takeout container full of fried rice, and I take a few bites before passing it along. Nicole shoots me a smile laced with ice. “Feeling better? You seemed pretty out of it in bio this morning.”
    Madison, holding the fried rice, pauses and looks up with worry shining in her blue eyes. “You’re still sick?” She looks back at the food container and sets it down gingerly.
    “No, but thanks for your concern, Nicole.” My tone is neutral, but in my mind I’ve already classified her as someone to watch out for.
    A silver charm bracelet on Nicole’s wrist catches my attention. Glancing around subtly, I realize that Piper and Madison are wearing the same bracelets, though Leyla just wears a strand of thin red leather. “What are you looking at?” Nicole demands.
    “Nothing,” I mumble, taking a bite of broccoli from the next container that Piper passes me. Leyla gives me a strange look.
    “I thought you hated broccoli,” she says.
    “It’s . . . um . . . healthy,” I stammer.
    Leyla points at my chest. “Who are you and what have you done with Kailey?” I feel the blood draining from my face and the muscles tensing in my legs. I glance at the door, calculating how quickly I could be down the stairs and