Read The Rosemary Spell for Free Online

terrified to confess that we’d erased Shelby’s history project off the computer.
    I bite the inside of my cheek. Yes, we should turn it in, but I say, “No,” and I force myself to sound confident. “Like you said, maybe Constance left the diary for someone to use. Anyway, it’s ours now, and possession is half the law.”
    â€œNine-tenths.”
    â€œWhatever. No one’s looking for this.” I’ve convinced myself. “No one wants it.”
    Neither of us points out that just because no one knows the diary exists doesn’t mean it isn’t valuable. That the right thing would be to hand it over to my mom. Or to Mr. Cates, who has perched on his desk again and is reading a poem to himself. He’s smiling.
    I smile too. “He said to use whatever inspires us.”
    Adam looks from Mr. Cates to the diary to me. His face is set.
    â€œOur secret?” I offer my pinky.
    Adam wraps his pinky around mine, and we move our locked fingers from my forehead to his, adding this promise to a long line that stretches back beyond my memory.
    I shift the bookmark out of the way, and the strong scent of rosemary brings with it flashes of the island, where that piney smell infuses everything. Long, desperate games of Capture the Flag. Shelby lifting me up so I could hide the flag in the crook of a tree. Adam throwing and throwing and throwing the boat rope until he could lasso like Indiana Jones. Shelby reading aloud from
The Golden Compass
and then all of us playing that we were hiding from the Gobblers, who snatch children and, worse, snatch their souls, even though Shelby was technically too old to play pretend by then.
    â€œListen to this.” Adam pulls me back to now.
“The rosemary thrives.
” His eyes are wide, and his voice is just louder than a sigh. “Do you think the book is really writing back?”
    I want to say yes, but a more practical response comes out. “Constance and her dad lived on the island before the ’24 flood. He’s the one who planted the rosemary, remember?”
    â€œStill, you, like, moved the bookmark, which is rosemary, and I mean, you actually
are
Rosemary, and then the book says—”
    â€œThe book doesn’t ‘say’ anything. It was written a long time ago. Look.” I use my most matter-of-fact voice. “It’s weird the island has rosemary growing on it, as our science teachers always point out. But it’s exactly because it’s weird that it makes perfect sense she would mention it in her diary.” I don’t know why I’m working so hard to stifle the thrill that wants to rise up.
    Adam gives me a long look. “Okay.”
    Mr. Cates sets down his book, holds out his arms like a preacher, and summons our attention. “Class, the bell will ring in two minutes. Next session we’ll be in the library so you can start to research your poet’s biography. You’ll need to select your poet by then.”
    Adam and I look at each other, and we don’t need to say anything. Of course our poet will be Constance Brooke.
    Mr. Cates continues, “Get down your last thoughts before the bell chases away the muse.”
    I turn back to Adam. “We can’t write—”
    â€œWe already did,” Adam reminds me, turning ahead to the middle of the book. “This page is blank.”
    I peer at it closely to make sure. No faded writing appears.
    I take a breath like I’m jumping into cold water and write,
Words outlast stone. Poems are words.
    â€œVery clever,” Adam snorts.
    â€œFine. You do it.”
    Rosemary remembers,
he scrawls.
Rosemary is an herb and a person.
    â€œYou started off well,” I say.
    We watch the page, waiting to see if the book will write back. It doesn’t, of course. How could it?

    My brain is still untangling equations from algebra when Adam grabs my arm and steers me toward the library. “Let’s look