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So cool. I love the thought of my book being published in all sorts of different languages. Here's the first chapter of Witch Ways. It's only .99 for a limited time. You can get yours here
It happened in Biology when Troy, the
kid who liked to chew paper, blinked at me through his Stephen Hawking glasses
and said he would be honored to go to the dance with me. If it had just been
Troy, I wouldn’t have been so mad, but Troy was the final paper-chewer who sent
me over the edge. Earlier, I’d learned I had supposedly also asked Harrison,
the kid who wore a Justin Bieber button on the lapel of his school blazer, and
Frankel, the lead singer of the Wanna-be Lounge Lizards, a band that serenaded
the Hartly cafeteria every Friday with Sinatra tunes.
Three dates to Homecoming. I didn’t
even want one.
And so when I found out Melissa
Blankley was to blame, I lost it.
Rage is like that. It builds up inside
of you, like pressure in a teapot, until finally when the steam is so hot, so
big, you let go—because really, there isn’t another choice. And everyone lets
go differently. Some people use body language—tight lips, a simple eye-roll.
Others swear and name call. A few actually become violent, and throw punches or
people.
Some of us burn stuff.
Although, not always intentionally.
Don’t ask me how everything caught fire. Nothing like that had ever happened
to me before.
And because it was so frightening, I
hope nothing ever happens like that again.
CHAPTER ONE
“Teenage girls are genetically wired to
be unkind to each other.” Uncle Mitch adjusted his glasses and met the hostile
gaze of Dr. Roberts, making me proud. Uncle Mitch rarely met anyone’s gaze
head-on, not even his students at Yale. “It’s in their DNA. They have to
compete for mates.”
“But they do not have to burn down the
science room.” Dr. Roberts tapped his pencil on the pile of papers on the desk
in front of him and fixed me with his cold stare. He had an uncanny resemblance
to manikins: plastic-looking hair, too perfect teeth, and flawless skin.
“But I didn’t—” I started.
Uncle Mitch sent me a warning glance,
and I bit back my words. Before our meeting with the principal, he had made me
promise not to speak. You are your own
worst enemy, he had said. I silently glared at Dr. Roberts.
“As I told you before, we have several
eyewitnesses—”
“But teenage girls—” Uncle Mitch began.
“Not just the girls,” Dr. Roberts
interjected, “but several of the students including the son of the president of
the school board. And Mr. Beck,” Dr. Roberts added.
I liked Mr. Beck, and I hated him to
think I would do this. Even though maybe I had. Not that I had meant to.
“It was an accident.” I refused to be
hushed by Uncle Mitch’s foot pressing against my leg. “I don’t even know how it
happened.”
Dr. Roberts tapped, tapped, tapped his
pencil.
“According to Mr. Beck,” Dr. Roberts
looked down at his papers, “sparks flew from your fingertips.” Tap, tap, tap. “Can you explain this?”
“Would it matter if I could?” I folded
my arms, leaned back in my chair, and kicked Uncle Mitch with my saddle shoe. Ditching
the Hartly uniform was the only upside of expulsion I could see. Goodbye,
tartan plaid pleated skirts. So long, itchy red sweaters, and knee-high socks.
Adios, clunky black and white saddle shoes. But as I thought of what changing
schools really meant, I blinked back tears and hoped no one would see.
“I’m sorry,” Dr. Roberts said. “Evelynn
is an excellent student—a credit to Hartly and a reflection of the outstanding academic
program we here at the academy espouse.”
He sounded like he was giving a speech
at a school fundraiser and begging parents for more money. I glanced at the
papers on his desk and saw my name at the top with a red slash through it.
“Of course, she’s an excellent
student!” Uncle Mitch exploded.
I gaped at him. Uncle Mitch never
exploded—except when he accidentally ate dairy—but that was a different,
smellier sort of explosion.
“Which is why I’m sure she won’t have
any problem adjusting to the public school,” Dr. Roberts continued.
Public
school? Yes,
please.
Uncle Mitch gave a small, almost imperceptible
shake of his head.
“Because I was fairly sure you would
feel that way,” Dr. Roberts leaned forward, “I took the liberty of speaking to
Evelynn’s grandmother.”
Wait. What?
Uncle Mitch blanched and refused to me
my questioning gaze when I kicked him. I kicked him harder.
He didn’t flinch, but continued to give
Dr. Roberts his best death stare. Uncle Mitch doesn’t have x-ray vision like
superman, but with his dark hair, blue eyes, and square jaw, he sort of looks
like him. Not that he would ever wear tights. He mostly wore button down plaid
shirts with a pencil and small notebook in the pocket, khaki pants, and leather
penny loafers. Today, in an effort to dress up for the occasion, he’d worn his
favorite wool sports jacket with the frayed cuffs.
Dr. Roberts placed his elbows on the
table. “As you are aware, Faith Despaign Academy is an excellent school, and as
a former trustee—”
Uncle Mitch pushed to his feet. “This
meeting is over,” he said through tight, white lips.
“Have you consulted with Evelynn’s
parents?” Dr. Roberts also stood.
Uncle Mitch gave Dr. Roberts a
silencing look. “I am Evie’s legal
guardian.”
“I just thought Mr. Marston would like
to know. I rather hoped to meet him.”
Of course, he did. Everyone wanted to
meet my father. Money makes insta-friends.
“I had hoped to see Sophia, Mrs.
Marston, as well,” Dr. Roberts babbled, flushing, obviously trying not to look
like the money grabber that he was. “Is she—”
“Still in India,” I said.
“I’m sure she’ll want to be appraised
of this situation.” He paused and smiled at me. “I knew your mother when we
were kids. You remind me of her.”
For a moment, he looked almost human. I
tried to picture him with his heavily starched suit and slicked back hair
standing beside my mom’s red corkscrew curls and random freckles. They didn’t
belong in the same room. Maybe not even on the same planet. They were
definitely different species.
“We grew up together,” Dr. Roberts
continued. “That’s why I felt comfortable contacting Mrs. La Faye.”
Uncle Mitch headed for the door.
Dr. Roberts scrambled after him. “I
would have hesitated to dismiss Evelynn if I hadn’t known she had a place at Faith
Despaign.”
Uncle Mitch spun on his heel. “Did Beatrix
set this up?”
Dr. Roberts reeled back. “No-o,” he
stammered. “How could she?”
Uncle Mitch studied Dr. Roberts through
slit eyes.
“Arson is a serious crime.” Dr. Roberts
visibly wilted and slunk behind the safety of his desk. He shuffled the papers
that wore my name. “Again, I’m very sorry about this, Evelynn and Dr. Marston,
but I’m sure you’ll find Faith—”
With an angry grunt that sounded a
little like the noise Scratch, our bulldog, makes when he has to move, Uncle
Mitch headed for the door.
I followed.
My uncle stalked down the deserted hall,
out the door, and down the steps. The acrid smoke smell still hung in the air
even though the fire had been put out days ago. I tried not to look at the
black cavernous hole that had once housed the science department.
I hurried to stay next to him. “Do you
want to tell me about my grandmother?” I asked, my voice shaking.
“No,” he said without looking at me. “Do
you want to tell me how the fire really started?”
“I can’t.”
Uncle Mitch increased his speed, and I
trotted beside him in my clunky saddle shoes. “But—don’t you think having a
grandmother is something I should have known before now?”
He stopped and met my gaze. “No.” He strode
away.
I stared at his back, realizing I had
never seen him angry before. Never. Not even when my friend, Bree, accidentally
backed into his 1958 T-Bird with her 2000 Toyota Corolla, or when Scratch was a
puppy and chewed up one of his loafers, or when I accidentally knocked over his
moth habitat, and we had larvae everywhere in the house for months. Mrs. Mateo
had been really mad, but Uncle Mitch hadn’t said a word and just went back to recreating
the moths’ home.
Thinking about all the many ways I’d
disrupted his solitary life made me once again grateful I’d gotten Uncle Mitch
in the divorce. Dad got Maria, Mom got Fred, and I got Uncle Mitch. I had
definitely won. But at the moment, my curiosity was having a face-off with
gratitude, and curiosity was winning big time.
“I’m sixteen years old!”
“Fifteen,” Uncle Mitch corrected. “Your
birthday isn’t until January.”
“I know when my birthday is. What I don’t
know…or didn’t know…was I have a grandmother!” I stopped chasing him and
watched him stalk away from me. “Isn’t that something someone should have told
me?”
“No.” He didn’t turn around, but
marched toward his car.
I ran, afraid he would drive off and
leave me in the nearly empty parking lot. I climbed in the T-Bird, closed the
door, and stared at him.
“Why not?”
After sticking the key in the ignition
and putting the car in gear, he met my gaze. “I promised your mom and dad.” He
lifted his shoulder in a defeated shrug. “You’ll have to ask them.”
“Did my grandmother know about me?” It
stung that not only would my parents and Uncle Mitch keep such a huge secret
from me, but that the mysterious Beatrix grandmother hadn’t even wanted to know
me.
Uncle Mitch, grim faced, didn’t answer,
but steered his ancient car out of the parking lot and down the tree-lined
street. Red, gold, and yellow leaves fluttered past the window.
“Do I have a grandfather I don’t know
about?”
“No.”
“Aunts, uncles, cousins?”
He didn’t answer.
“So, I do.” I chewed on this. “Why
didn’t anyone tell me?” Anger, frustration, and curiosity built like a dark
cloud. Growing warm and agitated, I curled my hands into tight fists.
Taking three deep breaths, I looked out
the window and watched the familiar landscape flash by. I had lived on Elm
Street my entire life. I had started Hartly in kindergarten. I didn’t even know
anyone who went to Faith Despaign.
“Where’s this school?”
For a moment, sympathy flashed in his
eyes. “North Harbor, off the Merit.”
“It’s expensive, then.” I knew my dad
had money, but I’d always assumed my mother’s family was poor. I don’t know
why, except my mother was always, as Grammy Jean used to say, a free spirit in
sandals. Mom wore long gypsy skirts and gauzy blouses even in the winter when
everyone else wore itchy wool.
A thought struck me. Maybe Mom’s
clothes were more than just a fashion statement! Maybe, like me, she had a
temperature problem.
I scrounged through my bag, looking for
my phone. Then I remembered. Sticking out my hand, palm out, I said, “I want to
call my mom.”
Uncle Mitch glanced at me before
reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone.
“Aw, come on! I can’t even have my
phone for two minutes?”
“By orders of your dad, you’re
grounded.” He slapped his phone into my palm.
“Ugh.” I started to press Mom’s number,
then froze.
“What’s the matter?” Concern touched
Uncle Mitch’s voice.
I shook my head, blinked back tears and
stared out the window. How could I ask my mom—or anyone, really—if she sparked,
too?
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