Kelly McClymer-Salem Witch 02 Competition's A Witch (16 page)

Clearly, the cheerleaders had spread the news. And I couldn’t really blame them. It was juicy news. The new girl acts more like a mortal than a witch. Can she do magic, or is she a poser? The question was in everyone’s eyes.

Scratch that. The question was in every
student
’s eyes. The teachers were clueless, as usual. Take Coach Gertie, who had
grabbed me the second I arrived at practice. “Pru. We need to register for the regional competition, right?”

“Yes.” It was almost painful the way she was smiling at me. She was very pleased about competing. Of course, she didn’t have a clue about all those mortal steps required to do so. Which I found out when I asked, in all innocence, “Has the headmistress agreed to pay the fees? Or is that something we need to get from the Witches’ Council?”

Coach blinked. “Fees?”

“You know,” I said very quietly, as it was occurring to me that Coach might be just as clueless about the little mortal rules as I was about the little witch rules, “it costs money to go to Regionals.”

“Money? Of course.” She sounded as if she’d never heard of it. And looked as though she thought it was something nasty-smelling.

Tara, who had been standing nearby, looking at me as if I were a victim of a deadly fashion mishap, unhelpfully clarified, “Money, Coach. That stuff mortals trade around to get the things they can’t get for themselves. Poor things, not able to pop up stuff like pizza for themselves and all.”

Coach ignored the snarky tone. She was focused on her dream of Regionals. “How much money do you think we’ll need?”

I realized that giving any information stuck me even deeper in the quicksand of being too familiar with mortal
ways. But Coach Gertie looked so eager. Sigh. “Well, I’m not exactly sure, but I know we were always having fundraisers at my old school and we were always worried that we didn’t have enough.”

“Fund-raisers?” Another word Coach Gertie had never heard.

Duh. If you don’t use money, you don’t need fundraisers, do you? I really did think too much like a mortal. I had just that second clued in to the absence of bake sales in the lunchroom, or candy bar sales by the football or baseball teams.

“Sure. All the mortal schools do it. For uniforms and buses and equipment and fees for competitions, too.”

“Oh.” Coach Gertie frowned and fiddled with her whistle.

This was clearly a big problem. “How do the teams here get the uniforms and equipment?”

“We pop them.”

Duh. Was I ever going to shake the mortal dust off my mind? “Oh. Well, can’t we just pop the fees?”

Tara said, with real delight, “That’s against the Witches’ Council rules.”

Of course it was.

“Oh.” I couldn’t think of another response. My brain was shut down, a victim of the gaping abyss between thinking like a mortal and thinking like a witch.

“I guess we just won’t be able to compete. Too bad.” Tara
had a gleam in her eye. I knew what was coming next. No competition meant Coach Gertie would have no use for the new girl.

Coach Gertie sighed deeply in disappointment. “This is one thing I can’t see my way around. It’s big trouble to pop up a wad of mortal money—throws the mortal realm into chaos.”

For one second, I contemplated letting it all go down the way Tara wanted it to. For one second. But I couldn’t bear to let her push me out this way. I couldn’t go home to Beverly Hills and my old team. I couldn’t do witchcraft competently. The only thing I could do well was cheer. Besides, giving in was too close to giving up. And I’m allergic to giving up. “How do you buy things you want from the mortal realm?”

“We don’t have a lot of dealings with the mortal world in that way,” Coach explained. “We let mortals handle their money and we take care of ourselves with magic.”

I thought of Grandmama, who had a fondness for mortal gadgets. How did she get them if she hadn’t found a way to get her hands on mortal money without breaking the Council rules? “Is it against the rules to get money from mortals? I think my Grandmama once bought a mortal piece of artwork by popping a nice diamond ring and pawning it for cash.”

I held my breath, hoping I wasn’t getting Grandmama in
strouble with the Council. “If that’s not a problem with the Council, then we could just: raise funds among mortals. It is a mortal competition, after all, so it isn’t like taking money out of the mortal realm.”

Coach Gertie beamed like a spotlight at me. “Excellent idea.”

Take that, Tara.

I was just about to let myself breathe again when Tara shot back, “And just how are we going to do that? We’ve never begged for anything before. Especially not mortal money.”

Coach got a weird glint in her eye. I knew I was going to regret whatever she said. I knew it. And I was right.

“I believe we can all name just the person to lead our fund-raiser.”

Tara gave a pretend-bright smile. “Oh yes, Coach Gertie. Pru is the perfect person for a
mortal
fund-raiser. She understands the
mortal
ways so well.”

I smiled back, just as bright and just as fake. “I certainly do understand how to raise money—and how to win a cheering competition, too.” I didn’t add,
in the mortal world
. It was understood.

I was really getting tired of being given what seemed like tasks Clark Kent could handle only to have them morph to Superman-impossible before my eyes. Take fund-raising. I knew at least a dozen ways to raise funds. My old school
district started us young. In kindergarten, it was wrapping paper and ribbons. By the time we were in high school, we were juggling bake sales, booster sales, car washes, candy, popcorn, a casino night—and my personal favorite that would happen only in Beverly Hills: a chance to get head shots done and sent to a Hollywood agent (who was a football dad).

I rattled these off to an eager Coach Gertie and fifteen underwhelmed cheerleaders—all but the head shot idea. My teammates shot down every suggestion as soon as I spoke them aloud.

Charity, Tara’s right-hand witch, said, “We can pop anything we like for lunch. Why would we need a table of things other people had popped?” Her too thin brows rose up in horror. “You aren’t asking us to actually
bake
the things, are you?”

“Candy? You’d want us to sell candy? Where? I know you don’t get it, Pru,” Tara said, with a fake “poor Pru” smile, “but witches don’t carry money.”

“How about a calendar?” I asked at last, completely out of ideas. “I know a team that did a calendar and made oodles of money. Maybe we could even make enough to cover the national competition, too, since we don’t have to cover transportation and lodging fees.”

I’d thrown it out there in desperation. But the change in the room was … amazing.

Tara frowned. “We’d be in the calendar?”

I nodded. “I could take the pictures with my cell phone camera.” Well, I could if I got it back from Samuel. He collected kewl mortal gadgets. But he wouldn’t stand in the way of my last chance to reverse my dive into social suicide, would he? Not Samuel.

“I’m in.” Tara was not only in, she was glowing. I couldn’t help but wonder what secret dream I’d tapped with the calendar suggestion. Maybe I shouldn’t have counted the head shot idea out so quickly-although we didn’t have any agent dads at Agatha’s … that I knew of.

Tara stepped forward. “I’ll design the calendar, Coach.”

“Great, Tara. I’m sure Pru will appreciate all the help she can get.”

Right. Sigh. It was going to be a hard year. And Tara was going to get all the credit. Except not for the fund-raiser. Nope. I was going to be the best fund-raiser any school has ever seen. And everyone was going to know it.

Besides, I could already see a way to make the volunteer work Angelo’s mom had dragged me into turn into a fundraising gold mine. Give me lemons, I make lemonade!

Being a witch made for an easier time creating a calendar, I have to say. I’d gotten the camera phone back from Samuel, and by the end of the next day’s practice we had twelve rocking pictures for the inside months. We still needed a
picture for the cover. It had to be spectacular, so we weren’t going to take just anything. Sixteen girls agreeing on one great picture was going to take some time.

“You girls are doing a wonderful job here, Prudence,” Coach told me. “I am certain we’re going to make the deadline to register with this calendar as our fund-raiser.”

“It’s going to sell like BOTOX injections just before a high school reunion,” I agreed. I didn’t mention who it was going to sell to, because Coach didn’t ask. Neither had anyone else on the project. I was letting them enjoy the creative process. Selling the beautiful calendars we’d created was going to be much tougher.

“I’ve been meaning to give you these rules,” Coach said, summoning a scroll from nowhere, “to help you guide the girls on their competitive moves.”

“Thanks.” I took it with a smile and went into a corner of the gym to read it over.

Rules for Competing with Mortals

1. Use no magic that takes advantage of natural mortal inferiority.

2. In any mortal competition, all magical enhancement of skills and advantages is strictly forbidden, unless necessary to save life and/or limb.

3. Memory-erasing charms are to be used only by those authorized and carrying the appropriate permit with an official council seal.

4. The penalty for any witch discovered cheating by use of magic in a mortal competition will be, up to and including, a time-reversal and forfeiture of contest prize and a subsequent reliving of the time from the end of the improperly won contest until the time the indiscretion is discovered.

5. 5. Accidental use of magic during competition will not be punished if culprit immediately resigns from further competition.

I guess, because I had been appointed queen of fundraising, Coach thought I should be careful not to think I could just cast a throw me money, now spell in case the calendar idea was a dud. Little did she know my skills weren’t quite up to that challenge.

I have to say, throwing in the towel on the competition was starting to look more and more tempting. Our team was going to look like idiots out there if I couldn’t convince the girls to start shaping up. And none of them were inclined to think a witch who thought like a mortal had anything to offer them. I’d shown them the difference between sharp moves and sloppy moves until I was cheering in my sleep. But nothing was getting through to them.

I couldn’t give up. That would be like a B-list star refusing a role in an A-list movie because he’d gotten a bad review in his most recent: flop. Failure is best viewed from the rearview mirror, then forgotten. But these days, there was no enthusiasm in my practice leadership smile. As I
launched into my latest pep talk with the dirt shufflers, I could tell things weren’t going well. But I had no idea how far off track I’d gotten until I used the phrase that always whipped my former team into form: “Remember, people, there is no I in team!”

They blinked at me, unimpressed. Which wasn’t great, but I could work with it. At least, I thought I could, until Tara said, “But there is an I in witch.”

Everyone dissolved in giggles. And the practice became even worse than the free-for-all it usually was.

Since I wasn’t head cheerleader, I went into a corner, cast a spell to keep clumsy flyers out of it, and popped myself a Mae-Flyer. Stretching always put me into a Zen state, which I seriously needed right now. Not that stretching to maintain perfect form would make any difference if I was the only one who bothered. Even a perfect dancer would look awkward in a chorus line that was off beat.

I was tired of fighting the girls. Tired of fighting Tara. It was a war that was never won, no matter how many battles went my way. There was only one way to win the war and that was to get Tara fighting on my side. Easier said than done, for sure. What could you get for the cheerleader who has everything, including a wicked grasp on magic? And would it be enough to make her see that it would serve her interests to buy into the “mortal” idea of cheerleading teamwork?

I was shocked when Tara stepped through my defense
zone. It was almost as if I’d asked the question aloud. “What’s that?” She pointed to my Mae-Flyer.

“It’s called a Mae-Flyer. It helps me get just the right lift in my hip.” I tried to demonstrate, lifting into the air in perfect form. But I didn’t go anywhere. Duh. I muttered a chant under my breath to dissolve the defense bubble away and then rose in the air.

“Kewl. Can I try?”

Pretty sure it wouldn’t really be that simple, I handed over the Mae-Flyer and showed her how to use it.

She didn’t quite get the hang of it, so I tried to give her pointers. “You want your standing leg straight, and a perfect ninety-degree bend here.” I tried to get her hip in the right place, but she wasn’t very flexible.

Since the mirrors I had asked Coach for still hadn’t materialized, I popped a mirror in midair. “See? I did the pose properly between Tara and the mirror. It was clear where she was off. It was also clear, from the reflection of her expression, that she didn’t like it.

She hauled on the Mae-Flyer strap, pulling her hip into perfect position—for about a half a second. Then she let go. “Ouch! That’s hard!” She rubbed her hip.

“The cramp will go away if you stretch beforehand and practice every day.” I saw a chance to do my bit for team sync with Tara—and the rest of the squad, all watching us with gossip-girl interest, even if they were pretending they weren’t.

Tara sent one of those “for my ears only” whispers my way. “This whole ‘mortal slipup’ stuff could be kewl, you know.”

“It could?” Samual had taught me the quiet whisper trick, so I used it. I was looking for the other shoe, not wanting it to drop on my head. “How?”

“I can make it kewl.”

I thought about it for about a millisecond. Yep, she could. But I wasn’t born on the back lot of a fantasy world. “That would be quite a favor. I’d owe you.”

“Don’t be silly. It’s no big deal.” She really did have the perfect cheerleader smile when she was lying. “I wouldn’t want anyone laughing at you, me, and Angelo when we’re out for a drive in that car of yours. You’re one of my best buds.”