The Hawkweed Prophecy by Irena Brignull Page B

home late. Only a few perfunctory words, no trace of the moment they had shared last night. Poppy mentally kicked herself for feeling let down. The flicker of hope that had been lit yesterday in the dell and then fanned by the laughter with her dad was suddenly snuffed out. So much for a new start , she thought, and she left the dirty breakfast things on the counter to sour.

    â€œDouble, double toil and trouble . . . ” Poppy hated reading out loud to the class. She had kept her hand down while plenty of others had shot up, but Mrs. Walters had chosen her anyway.
    â€œSpeak up!” Mrs. Walters was now demanding in a shrill voice that demonstrated her desired volume.
    â€œFire burn, and cauldron bubble . . . ” Poppy raised her voice, and the words seemed to echo around the classroom.
    â€œLike a witch, Poppy. Not a moody teenager.”
    The class broke into laughter. Poppy’s eyes flashed and she quickly looked back down at the text. She took a deep breath to try to slow the blood gushing through her veins. Only two more lines to go.
    â€œCool it with a baboon’s blood, then the charm is firm and good.” She finished with a flourish, relieved it was over.
    â€œOkay. Talk to me about the weird sisters, Poppy. Enlighten us with your analysis.”
    Poppy’s relief vanished. Mrs. Walters smirked at her, enjoying Poppy’s discomfort.
    â€œCome on. You just read it out . . . you must have understood something.”
    Poppy shrugged. She stared at Mrs. Walters, perched on the table so condescendingly. There was a smudge of lipstick on her teeth, noted Poppy, and the shop label was still stuck on the bottom of her shoe.
    Mrs. Walters rolled her eyes at the class in an exaggerated expression of exasperation. “No? . . . Nothing? . . . Nothing at all?” The teacher gestured to the heavens despairingly, an actress on her classroom stage.
    Poppy took a breath, then raised her eyes to Mrs. Walters and stared at her intently. “I think the witches see Macbeth,” she said angrily. “He’s all smug and superior, looking down on them andthinking they’re just ugly, old hags and they’re glad they’re messing with him, showing him how he and his Mrs. Macbeth are more ugly and evil than they’ll ever be . . . and maybe that’s why they hang out on the moor and not in the town or up in the castle with the rest of the deluded bunch of hypocrites who think they’re so civilized.”
    There was silence, then the snickering started.
    Mrs. Walters uncrossed her legs with a flick of her toes and sprang up from her desk. “I’m not entirely sure that’s what Shakespeare had in mind, Poppy, but colorfully put. Jamie, why don’t you continue—go down to where Macbeth enters?”
    Jamie started stammering and stuttering his way through the speech, and as she listened, it dawned on Poppy that nothing had gone wrong. No one was hurt, nothing was broken. She hadn’t been ordered out of the classroom or sent to the principal’s office. She had simply said what she thought. Perhaps it was a new start after all.

    Poppy took the long way back that evening. She was in no rush to reach home. She wandered past the uninspiring shops and fast food places in what was fancifully known as the town center—a small bit of street, closed to cars, where the stores kept their doors open, heat and music wafting out, trying to tempt people in from the cold, damp air. Groups of kids gathered, talking loudly, utterly unaware of anyone around them. Girls bitching, their strident voices interrupting and overlapping so no sentence was finishedbefore another started. Boys pushing and pulling one another, exploding into laughter, chasing one another down the street. Couples clinging to each other, lips locked, like they were one four-legged, two-faced being. At least that’s how they appeared to Poppy as she glanced at them curiously, trying to