Wicked Girls by Stephanie Hemphill Page B

all the time foul,”
    Step-Mother says to Father.
    I creak open the door,
    and the room hums with silence.
    â€œMargaret.” Father guides me
    to a chair. “Your uncle Thomas
    has asked that you come to aid
    in his home. And I did say you would.”
    â€œBut I be not a servant.”
    The tears I been holding
    shower ’pon my face.
    â€œOf course not,” he pats my head.
    â€œWe think there may be more power
    in having three seers under one roof.
    Perhaps the witches will stop
    their torment. Now ready yourself.”
    I know he be wrong, we will torment
    all the more, but I rise to pack my bags.
    Father smiles. “Ann’s mother
    requested that you come.”
    The corners of my mouth round up.
    My aunt Ann—might she
    offer some aid with Isaac,
    and Ann’s mistreatment of me,
    and dread Mercy? My feet tingle.
    â€œYes, sir,” I say.
    I do not bid Step-Mother farewell.
    I just kiss Father’s cheek
    and slide out the door.

HE IS NOT THE MAN
    Mercy Lewis, 17
    The tailor of cloths and hides
    gazes at me.
    I do not know this man
    to point a finger at.
    Only Ann does that.
    â€œHe is upon the beam,”
    Ann says, and all look
    up to the rafters,
    but I see neither person
    nor specter there.
    Judge Corwin points at the tailor.
    â€œBe this man a witch?”
    he asks us Afflicted.
    Elizabeth says, “Yes, sir.
    He is the one who hurts me.”
    But her voice quivers
    as she speaks, like a branch
    rattled in the wind.
    Allowed back in court for the first time,
    Abigail looks to Ann,
    but Ann stares toward the window.
    In a voice unsteady
    as a one-legged man Abigail says,
    â€œHe is the man. He is very like the man.”
    Margaret says, “Yes, he is very like the man.”
    The tailor’s eyes plead with me.
    I shift on the court bench.
    â€œHe is not the man,” I say.
    Gasps and chatter fly
    about the court like roused hornets.
    Judge Corwin calls, “Silence.”
    Ann’s eyes enlarge
    and she demands of Nehemiah Abbott,
    the tailor, “Be you the man?”
    Ann spits and sputters,
    writhes and kicks herself
    onto the floor.
    She cries, “Did you put a mist on my eyes?”
    We are dragged outside
    and asked again
    to look upon the countenance
    of Goodman Abbott.
    All the girls nod with me this time.
    Though Goodman Abbott
    be like the specter,
    he is not the same man.
    They release Nehemiah Abbott
    from his chains.
    Little Ann folds her arms,
    grinds her toe
    into the dusty path.
    I stroke her head
    and she straightens up.
    Her eyes hold back water.
    â€œDid I do wrong?” she asks me.
    â€œOf course not,” I say.
    â€œIn fact, you did exactly right.”
    I lift my head
    to be for once
    not only a part
    of the beloved choir
    but its lead soloist,
    the whole town listening.

LIVING AT THE PUTNAMS’
    Margaret Walcott, 17
    I fold my skirts into Ann’s bureau,
    my entire wardrobe crammed
    into one drawer.
    This room smells like a waste bowl.
    I light a taper.
    I open the bureau
    and Mercy’s green shawl lies
    inside right where my blue
    one ought to go. I toss hers to the floor.
    â€œHow dare she go against you
    like that? Ye are our leader.”
    I feel the anger break
    through my veins like waves.
    â€œBut Mercy was right,” Ann says.
    I roll my eyes. I turn round
    to shake out my blanket,
    and Mercy looms in the doorway.
    â€œHow long you been loitering there?”
    I ask her.
    â€œLong enough.” She strokes Ann’s arm.
    â€œAnn, would you bring us tea?
    I set the water to boiling.”
    Ann’s off like a ship in high gales.
    â€œNow heed me,” Mercy says.
    As she speaks I spot a flaw of hers—
    her teeth are too big for her mouth.
    I pull back my arm and crack
    my blanket at her face like a whip.
    The shock stuns her.
    I laugh at her popped eyes
    and her hair stuck up
    like some frightened cat’s.
    I strike her again.
    She catches the blanket
    and drags me toward