Reading with Rasta: Izzy Hoffman is Not a Witch
Izzy Hoffman is Not a Witch by Alyssa Alessi prologue.
Every morning I wake from the same dream. Honestly, it’s more like a nightmare. I walk up to a ridiculously large brass-framed mirror, its dirty gold trim holding golden vines wrapped around its curves. Faces belonging to chubby baby angels are carved in its crevices. I’m hesitant to look at first, but then I jump in front of it like I know what’s coming and want to get it over with. I do know what’s coming. My reflection is the same every time. A woman with long straggly black hair and a gaunt face stares back at me. She has no eyes, yet she looks straight into my soul. Her head moves from side to side. My chest aches with each crook of her neck. She wants to pull me in, I know she does. Her bony fingers scratch at the sides of the glass. I open my mouth to scream, but the shriek comes from her unhinged jaw instead of mine. I always wake in a puddle of sweat, then get up to brush my teeth. This has been on repeat for five years, until today. Today is my twelfth birthday and as a gift, this woman smiled and punched through the glass.
Chapter 1
As the glass shatters, my eyes pop open. My bedroom door swings forward so hard it bounces off the door stop. “Happy birthday to ya! Happy birthday to ya!” The birthday parade around my room is in full effect. I smile, because even though I’m too old for this, my parents look hilarious.
“Thanks guys,” I giggle while I sit up to hug my mom. “You’re looking a little sweaty honey; do you want me to open up a window in here?” My dad kisses my cheek, his coarse beard stubble scratching my skin. He opens a window to let the cool October breeze rush in. I’m not sweating because I’m hot, I’m sweating because Bony Witch broke through the glass and changed the dream that has been the same for as long as I can remember. I will never admit to my parents that I’m still having these dreams, or the fact I named her. I used to cry out at night, but checking
the closets and turning on lights became useless. “Izzy? Are you ok?” mom asks. A navy-blue wizard hat stands tall on her head, and a black boa drapes snake like around her neck. Her outfit says silly, but her face says I’m worried about my strange child. I hate when my mom looks at me like that. Her left eyebrow all raised and her big brown eyes burning holes in my skin. It’s like she has some sort of mom superpower that detects when I’m even just a little uncomfortable.
“What? Yeah, I’m fine,” I lie. “Maybe… I’m getting a little old for the birthday parade, you know?” I search their faces for any hint of them not believing me.
My parents exchange a look. I feel bad once I say it out loud, but it was that or bring up my dream.
“Pfft, you are never too old for a birthday parade, but we can tone it down a bit next year if you’d like,” my mom compromises.
“Speak for yourself Loretta! I’m still wearing my cloak next year!” dad jokes, while swinging the cape in front of his face like a vampire would. He opens his mouth wide every time he laughs, showing off his perfect bright teeth against his smooth dark skin.
“I’m not too old for the pancakes, though,” I laugh giving them a sly smirk.
“Mm Hmm…” my mom smiles and gets up from my bed, tossing all the fluffy blankets behind her. Dad looks out the window at the growing crowd and says, “Alright birthday girl, we have a shop to open so let’s get them pancakes before it gets too late,” in a tone too serious for his outfit.
To my dad it’s just a shop, but to my mom and I, it’s home. My dad always teases “you girls should just set up sleeping bags down there and I’ll see you in the morning!” Dark Alley Books has been our family bookshop for generations. From the outside, it’s a large brick building with glass windows showcasing jack-o-lanterns and string lights year-round. Like most buildings on our side street, it holds a shop on the bottom level and a home on the second. Next to our olive-green door there is a plaque that reads “J YOUNG 1641”. J Young is my ancestor from my mom’s side. All I know is he built this building, and for almost four hundred years, my family has sold books out of it. We don’t just sell books anymore, we also sell t-shirts that say “Witch City” with a silhouette of a witch flying on a broom across the chest. Mugs, hats, socks, and other boring things that have nothing to do with books also sit on our shelves. It isn’t just Dark Alley Books that sells these. The corner store, literally named The Cornah Store, sells the same crap. The hardware store, the pharmacy—everywhere you turn you’ll see the witch logo. We sell things for the tourists. Every October our little town of Marblehead (aka nowhere even remotely cool, New England) gets flooded with tourists.
Since today is October first, there will be a line down the block for every store on our downtown street. It’s like this is the only area tourists bother to check out. Do they not know about the arcade on the other side of town? Or the view from the cliff at Dead Horse Beach? They don’t care, they just want souvenirs with a picture of a witch on it, to show everyone they came here. To show they visited the famous “witch city.” The town that celebrates Halloween like no other.
My predictions were correct. I step onto the cobblestone and immediately a woman in an elaborate witch costume yells “Hey kid! You open?”
“No.” I scoff with zero enthusiasm.
My parents love the customers because “They are what’s keeping us alive Izzy! Without them we’d just have a family library!” And? I’d be good with that. The corner in the back could be for just me. The nook in the back of the shop is my sanctuary, and I don’t like when customers touch my stuff. There is a table set up with dozens of bowls filled with all different types of crystals. Each one is unique, varying in color, size, and texture. And they are supposed to have healing powers. We sell books on crystals, so I know that Rose Quarts is for love, Tourmaline is for protection, and Amethyst for healing… supposedly. I don’t believe any of it, but I still love touching them all. I feel like when everyone else comes in and touches them, it ruins how they feel for me. It’s stupid, but they are mine.
I’m thinking about my crystals and watching my reflection in the windows as I walk by each store. I love watching my waist-length hair blow behind me as I walk and catching when my lip gloss shines in the sun against my mocha complexion. There is something about storefront window reflections that make you look way cooler than you do in real life. I can hear my mom’s voice in my head, “You’re daydreaming again Izzy…” and smash! I collide with a man and fall to the ground. I hit my head so hard on the brick that I must be asleep because Bony Witch is all I see. She paces back and forth in the mirror. The concerned look on her face sending a hint of fear to my gut. She is biting her claw-like nails and grabbing her own face. Suddenly she stops. She catches me watching her and dashes full speed towards the mirror.
I wake up on the ground to an elderly woman with her hand out to help me up.
“Sweetie, are you hurt? That man just knocked you down and kept going! People these days, rude as ever, I tell you!” “Yeah, thanks” I say a bit confused. My head is killing me, and the slight dizziness is throwing me off. I see the man who I collided with and feel a chill crawl from my fingertips up my arms. He is tall and thin, with his calf-length black leather coat blowing behind him as he tries to flee the scene. The old lady is still going on about how back in her day gentlemen did the right thing, but I’m focused on catching up with that guy. I’m not sure what I’m going to say when I do but I want to get a better look at least.
“I know, right? So rude! Thanks again!” I yell to the lady as I start to run. He turns the corner on Derby St. but by the time I get there the street is completely crowded, and he’s gone. I lost him.