Kelly McClymer-Salem Witch 02 Competition's A Witch (19 page)

The morning of October 31 dawned cold and raw. Perfect for my mood. “I’d been studying in quadruple time with Cousin Seamus, but there was no way to explain that to Angelo or his mother, so I was still on the hook for my volunteer work at Old Salem Village. Picture me, as tired as a B-movie actress who’d just finished her twentieth “run down the hall and scream at the top of your lungs” take. I was dressed in costume and trying to look, if not thrilled, then at least awake.

“Ready?” Angelo came to the door to pick Mom and me up. That woke me up. He was dressed in Puritan black. You’d think he’d look dorky, considering he was better known for a tight T-shirt and jeans look. But you’d be
wrong. Three hundred years ago, those lady Puritans would have been flapping their skirts at him. I bet the real Puritans would have clapped him in the stocks for turning the women’s heads to thoughts of fun and games. Apparently they weren’t too big on anything other than work and prayer, plus persecuting witches every now and again, of course.

“Is anybody ever ready for this much fun?” I smiled, so he’d know I was joking.

“You look great.” The way his eyes twinkled, I could almost believe he meant it.

But then I remembered how I’d looked in the hall mirror. My hair was barely visible under my tight white cap, and my wool gown was unlined and very itchy. I’d put nylons on, even though woolen stockings would have been more proper. But because no one would see anything under the dress, I refused the final authenticity—which would have left my legs with a rash for the rest of the week, no doubt.

“Don’t you make a handsome couple.” Mrs. Kenton came up the walk, hurrying a little, no doubt to protect her precious, innocent Angelo from Pru the Puritan hussy. I don’t know why she was so eager to push him on us on the one hand and keep him from any of the natural boy-girl stuff on the other. Too bad I couldn’t explain why she didn’t have to worry about me chasing after her son. Maybe she’d stop
seeing me as a threat when I pulled the Tara switch, which I hadn’t clued Angelo in on yet—I didn’t want his mother to go all diva and insist I follow her carefully laid plan.

“I’ve put you both in the Warner cottage.” She handed us a thick folder of paper. “Here are your scripts. Remember that today you are a good Puritan couple.” She said that with a warning look at me. As if I might decide that the Puritan idea of marrying young and living without running water or electricity was the lifestyle for me.

I looked at my script as we climbed into Mrs. Kenton’s van for the quick trip to Old Salem Village. Make that the usually quick trip. The streets were jammed with people. Tourists, to be precise. They crossed the road without regard to traffic, turned away from oncoming cars and pointed, and just generally made life slow down to an excruciating crawl. I didn’t bother to try to remember the script. I hoped Tara would take things seriously enough to read it, at least. But I didn’t want to think about Tara and Angelo working the Warner cottage together.

The only upside to this whole volunteer gig was that we would be fund-raising to a packed house. Our calendars would be seen by thousands. Go, Pru.

I’d convinced Mrs. Kenton that the Witches could dress as witches and set up a small table to sell our cheerleading calendars. I told her it would be cute. She frowned.

I told her the headmistress of Agatha’s would be in her
debt. She agreed to the table. She wasn’t happy about it, but she agreed. And she gave me a look that asked whether or not I knew I was blackmailing her, in effect. I just gave her an innocent smile.

When we arrived, the team was waiting next to a pile of boxes. Even though all the girls were dressed like Puritans, they looked happy and cheerful—which meant nothing at all, because they were cheerleaders and we had a calendar to push on unsuspecting tourists. The plan was for the whole team to take turns manning the table and volunteering at Old Salem Village.

I managed the Tara-for-me switch without Mrs. Kenton noticing. I had prepared a don’t notice spell, but it wasn’t necessary because the minute she stepped out of her van, twenty-five frantic women needed her immediate attention. I thought Angelo looked a little like a sad puppy dog as Tara happily dragged him away without looking at the script I’d shoved in her hand.

I started opening boxes and stacking calendars in as attractive a display as I could manage without being able to use magic. Our calendars were really spectacular, if I do say so myself. The pictures had come out well. And a little bit of magic was tons better than Photoshop any day.

“This was a wonderful idea, Pru.” Mom came by in costume. “Everyone is talking about how well you girls did with the calendar and the ‘special effects.’ Not to mention
the fact that you avoided exploiting the sexiness factor and were tasteful.”

“Tasteful was Coach Gertie’s idea.” We’d been worried we’d lose sales without lower necklines and bare midriffs. But the steady line of customers (not all male, either) convinced me that Coach Gertie had been right. The citizens and tourists of Salem were more interested in helping a wholesome cheerleading team get to competition than they were in seeing us skimpily dressed on every page.

“Wow, how did you get this shot?” a woman asked, pointing to the month of February, where we were flying over a big heart-shaped frame. It was delicate—we looked almost like cherubs in cheerleader uniforms, lightly wafting around the heart shape, smiling, posing gracefully and against the rules of mortal physics.

“The magic of photography,” I said.

Not to mention the magic of salesmanship. We sold out of all the calendars without any hint of magic (Coach and Mom had both put magic damping spells on our booth). Except for the magic of making your dream come true.

When we counted up our earnings and realized we had enough to go to Regionals, plus a little left over for Nationals, we were buzzed. For once, it felt good to have managed to be entirely successful at Agatha’s.

Until Coach Gertie started to stuff the cash and checks
into the envelope with our Regionals application.

“You can’t just put those in there,” I explained. “You have to put them in your bank and then write a check to the competition.”

“A check?” The look on her face said it all. Checks in witch world were as useful as cash. In other words—not at all necessary.

Great. For a second I thought all was lost, and then I remembered that my dad had a checking account. He hadn’t loved the calendar idea, so I’d been keeping it on the down low around him. But this was an emergency. He had to help, even if I had to beg.

When I asked him that evening, he was going to say no at first—he thought selling calendars with our photos was pandering to the crowd who likes “underage cheesecake.” But Mom showed him the calendar, and he said, “You girls did a wonderful job on this!” He looked at my mom. “Wasn’t it risky for them to fly on camera?”

“Everyone knows all about Hollywood special effects.” My mom grinned at him.

He sighed. “Very well.” He went through the cash and receipts and totaled them up twice. “This is more than you need for Regionals, so I’ll keep track of the rest for your application fee to the national competition.”

“Thanks, Dad.” I hugged him. I couldn’t help it. I had two great parents, even if I didn’t always want to admit it. I bet
they’d even love me if I didn’t pass this test. Unfortunately, I would disown me.

As I changed out my prehistoric getup for something comfortable and cute and testworthy, I decided I was glad I’d set Angelo up with Tara. Now that I was in a witch school, I just couldn’t afford to juggle magic
and
a mortal boyfriend. Too much trouble. Too much potential for disaster. Mom was right. Ever since Daniel disappeared, I’d started to notice there were dozens of cute boys at school who not only knew I was a witch, but shared the magic genes. A whole lotta explanatory small talk no longer needed.

I popped downstairs to say good-bye to my parents.

“You’re a star, sweetie,” my dad said as I stood waiting for the stroke of midnight. “Knock ’em dead.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

I knew he was telling the truth when he told me I had nothing to worry about. My bracelet didn’t tingle at all.

Not until Mom chimed in with, “We have complete faith in you, honey. You’re going to be out of remedial classes tomorrow, I’m sure.”

Right, Mom. Then why is my bracelet tingling so hard, my fingers are numb? Sigh. Maybe I should take an unscheduled field trip back to Old Salem Village—three hundred years ago. The simple life of churning butter and cooking in a big pot over an open flame. A simple life for a girl who can only manage simple magic.

I expected the testing room to be the same as it was when I first tested into Agatha’s—blinding white walls, floor and ceiling that blended together. But it turned out to be Mr. Phogg’s regular classroom, chalkboard and all.

Things started out simply enough. Mr. Phogg sent me to the board, gave me a spell, and asked me to spot what was wrong and fix it.

I stared at the spell, wondering if it was okay to say it aloud. I decided not to risk it. I had a feeling I needed all the points I could get in order to pass.

Let’s see. This spell was meant to spiff up the student brain right before a test. Subtle, Mr. Phogg, subtle.

Words and nuance,
Dates and facts,
Fire my neurons,
Snap my synapses.

Hmmmm. Okay. Words matter. Dates matter. Facts matter. The brain has neurons and synapses. Sounded good to me. So, even though it was simple, I was already stumped. Great.

The only word that didn’t seem to belong was “nuance.” It meant shades of meaning, though, which could matter in a test. Or, duh, it does, obviously, since I’m supposed to change the one wrong word to the right word in order to make this spell work. Sigh. As far as I could tell, this spell should work.

I suppose it could be a trick question, but Mr. Phogg hasn’t thrown me a trick question since the first day of class, so I doubted it.

Okay. Back to the spell on the board. How’s the rhyme scheme? I know that matters.

Words and nuance,
Dates and facts,
Fire my neurons,
Snap my synapses.

Nuance and neurons have a certain symmetry, even though they don’t rhyme exactly. Facts and synapses, not so
much. Facts and synapse would rhyme well. But snapping one synapse wouldn’t make sense. Hmmm.

Mr. Phogg was watching me patiently. I didn’t notice him checking his watch, so I had a shred of hope that time was not important. Of course, I didn’t really want to take a year to pass the test. That seemed slightly counterproductive to me.

How about …?

I looked at Mr. Phogg. And then, with my best cheerleader lilt, I said,

“Words and nuance,
Dates and facts,
Fire my neurons,
Snap each synapse.”

I felt pretty confident, but not confident enough to end with a double wave “Yay!”

Mr. Phogg stared at me for a little longer than I liked. But then the spell erased itself off the board and a new one took its place.

I felt pretty comfortable with the spell portion of the test. Samuel said I was good at it, probably because of all my years of writing and practicing cheers.

I was just starting to think I might be able to pass this thing when Mr. Phogg changed it up on me. “Miss Stewart, it’s time for potions.”

I braced myself, prepared to be asked to make some cream or ointment that would clear the skin or improve short-term memory. But, no. Instead, a long oak table appeared in front of me. On it were small white ceramic bowls. Each bowl contained something. My stomach started to hurt. I was going to have to identify and name what looked like … forty … potion ingredients.

I tried not to show Mr. Phogg how nervous I was. I went to the first bowl and quickly wrote down eye of newt. That was easy. Unfortunately, it was the only easy one of the forty.

The problem with potion ingredients was that there were so many that looked alike. You had to smell it, feel the texture, sometimes taste it—although if you taste the wrong ingredient, it could be dangerous.

I thought about quitting. I had no idea what more than half of these things could be. There were four good candidates for hair of beetle, for example.

But quitting wasn’t an option. I would just have to hope I would have luck on my side for once since I’d landed in Salem. I took the same strategy I used with the SATs: Trust my instincts, answer the question, and move on to the next.

Mr. Phogg didn’t help things either. He kept hovering, watching me. He didn’t say anything, but every so often he would twitch, or sigh, or sniff. None of it seemed like approval, and my nerves were fried by the time I’d guessed at the last potion ingredients and we moved on to transfiguration.

At least turning one object into another and back again was something I had immediate feedback on. For example, I knew the rock I turned into a rabbit actually turned into a gerbil. Points off for sure. But the gerbil turned back into a rock, so I earned partial credit for that problem.

I think I passed transfiguration. I think. I made some mistakes, but I did quite a bit right. Sure, the black rabbit was white when I re-zapped it to its original form. But it was a rabbit. That had to count for most of the points. Right?