When Evelyn Marston is offered a shot at writing for Hartly High’s newspaper she’s thrilled. The only stipulation is she has to attend the school dance as a reporter, so when a trio of guys claim she asked them to the dance, she loses her cool. Literally. And burns down the science building.
Evie learns a few things:
1.
There are witches in every school and in every
situation.
2.
A fire isn’t the scariest thing that can happen
in high school.
3.
Sometimes the most frightening thing of all, the
most terrifying to face, is yourself.
Witch One is the short story prequel to the Kindle Scout
winning novel by Kristy Tate.
Witch Ways
The prequel to the Kindle Scout Winning novel, Witch
Ways
When emotions
run high, sparks can fly.
How
a High School Dance is Like the Courting Rituals Found in the Animal Kingdom
By Evelynn Marston
The animal kingdom is rife with
courtship rituals. These are generally initiated by the males who attempt to
woo female partners.
Some animals, like the bowerbird,
will collect a tower of objects to impress his love. The great grebe, who mates
for life, has a series of dance moves to perform throughout the mating season.
If, for any reason, the pair is separated, they will each bust a move when reunited.
The male peacock spreads his tail feathers and struts around.
The praying mantis literally risks
his life for a night of love. If his lady dislikes his performance, she bites
his head off.
A male nursery web spider will
present a little bundle of food wrapped in pretty white silk to the female as a
request to mate. If the female likes the present, the two will mate while she
unwraps and eats the meal. Sadly, sometimes the male will try to bring a
wrapped twig. When this happens, the relationship is dead in the water.
It might be thought that courtship
only occurs in the kinds of animals that have fairly complex brains, such as
mammals and birds. This is not the case as the school dances at Hartly High
clearly demonstrate!
Mr.
Cox put down my essay and wannabe newspaper article and smiled with a gaze that
glittered with excitement. "Are you willing to attend the dance--not as a
participant, but as a spectator?"
"Absolutely,"
I said.
"This
is the hallmark of a true journalist," he told me. "You must be able
to put aside your own desires. As a reporter, you cease to be an individual
with your own petty goals. Your function is to be a communication vessel--a
transmitter to the world."
I
nodded, mute with happiness.
#
"You
agreed to what?" Bree asked at her house later that night.
I
pushed my hair off my forehead and looked across the kitchen table at my best
friend. Studying at my own house, where there was no one but Scratch, our
bulldog, and the sound of Uncle Mitch's lab rats scurrying in their cages to
interrupt us, was quieter and therefore boring compared to hanging at Bree's.
"I'm
not going to the dance, per se, as a person." I had expected this
conversation and had prepared for it. "I'm going as a journalist."
"So
you are going and you can get me a ticket."
"You
know only upperclassmen can go."
Lincoln,
Bree's little brother, burst into the room wearing nothing but his
tighty-whities. "Where are the cookies?" he demanded. His pale skin
stretched across his bony chest.
"I
don't know anything about cookies," Bree told him. "And go and put
your clothes on."
Lincoln
scooted a kitchen chair up to the counter for a quick cookie-surveillance and
took note of backpacks, textbooks, novels, scribbled-on bits of paper, a
baseball card collection. His eyes lit up when he spotted a half-eaten
chocolate bunny, probably left over from Easter.
Bree
ignored her little brother. "But the Blazing Blizzards!"
"Norfolk
High will probably have a great band too."
"That's
so not true," Bree said.
"The
guys at your school are hotter."
Lincoln
stood on his chair and nibbled on one of the bunny's ears.
"What
makes you say that?" Bree asked.
"Well,
they don't have to wear Hartly’s uniform, for one thing."
In
the living room, the front door opened and Bree’s older sister Candace walked
in with a friend wearing a chicken suit. A cold breeze circled the room until
the door slammed shut.
"What
the quack?" Lincoln asked.
"It's
'what the cluck,'" the girl in the chicken suit corrected him with a
giggle.
Candace’s
friend had masses of blond hair tucked into a hoodie covered with yellow
feathers. She wore the beak on top of her head like a rhino horn.
"You
look stupid," Lincoln told her.
"Thanks,"
the girl said.
"What
are you supposed to be?"
"I'm
a chick," she told him right before she lowered the beak over her nose.
"But
why?" Lincoln demanded.
"You'll
see," the girl said. The beak bobbed up and down with her muffled words.
"School
play try-outs already?" I asked Bree in a hushed tone as soon as the chick
and Candace ran up the back stairs.
"I
don't think so," Bree said.
"Are
the dogs outside?" Candace called from upstairs.
Lincoln
jumped off his chair. "Why?" he demanded. "They have just as
much right as you do to be in here."
"Just
take them out!" Candace called back.
"They're
not here," Bree yelled.
"Where
are they?"
"I
don't know," Bree answered.
"Well,
keep them out."
"Why?"
Lincoln asked.
The
smell of fried chicken fried wafted down the stairs.
"What
the...cluck?" Bree pushed back from the table and went into the front
room.
I
followed.
Candace
and the chick were dropping a trail of chicken nuggets that started at the front
door and ran up the stairs.
"Nobody
step on these," the chick demanded.
"Does
Mom know you're doing this?" Bree asked, her lips curled in disdain.
"She
won't care," Candace said as she dropped chicken nuggets on the floor.
"Uncle
Mitch would," I said under my breath.
Bree
nodded. “I don’t think Mom is going to like it, but the dogs will."
"Bree,"
Candace called. "Come help."
I
trailed up the stairs after Bree and followed the nuggets into the bathroom.
The chick lay in the bathtub and Candace stood beside her with a roll of
plastic wrap in her hands. "We're going to make it look like she's
swimming in nuggets."
Bree
gawked at the large tinfoil baking pans. "You must have spent a hundred
dollars on nuggets!"
"Three
hundred and twenty-five dollars," the girl announced from her prone
position in the tub.
"But
why?" Lincoln pushed into the room.
Candace
nodded at the sign hung on the white tile above the tub. It read, "Josh,
you'd be a clucking fool not to go to the dance with this hot chick."
Lincoln
bolted and waved his chocolate bunny in the air. "I want nothing to do
with this!" he yelled over his naked shoulder.
I
hoped Josh, Bree’s older brother, would feel the same. "I gotta go,"
I said, hating that I was following Lincoln's lead.
"Don't
you want to be here when Josh sees this?" Bree asked as she helped Candace
drop nuggets into the bathtub.
"Not
really." I headed out, taking care not to step on the nuggets. I pictured
how the rest of the evening would go. Mrs. Henderson’s lips would be tight with
anger over the greasy spots left on the carpet. The dogs would scarf up as many
nuggets as they could before any of the Hendersons would realize that the
overload of chicken would make them sick. The dogs would barf and then there
would be more than oily stains on the carpet. And Josh…he’d have a date to the
dance.
I
didn’t want to be there when any of that happened.
#
Melissa
Blankly cornered me the next day in the cafeteria. "I know what you're
doing," she said, poking me in the chest with her red bejeweled
fingernail.
"What
are you talking about?" I swatted her hand away and all her bracelets
tinkled in response.
She
gave me her best mean-girl smile. "You're just reporting on the dance so
you can get in."
"Uh,
no."
She
narrowed her eyes, making her fake lashes look like centipede legs. She opened
her mouth to utter another bit of stupidity but closed it fast.
I
looked over my shoulder to see why.
Robbie
Fisher, the editor-in-chief of the Hartly Herald, strode our way. He placed a
large, heavy hand on my shoulder. "Hey, I read the article you submitted
to Cox. Good stuff!"
"Thanks!"
I responded, flushing from his praise and nearness.
Robbie
was one of the few guys who could wear the Hartly uniform without looking like
a dweeb. In fact, with his towering height and broad shoulders, he looked
better than most of the males at Hartly, faculty included. "I can't wait
to read the rest of it," he said.
"Well,
I can't actually finish it until after the dance," I told him.
"Yeah."
He nudged me as if we shared a joke. "I got that."
Melissa
fluttered her eyelashes at him, but as soon as he left, she ramped up her
glare. "Have fun at the dance." It sounded like a threat, but what
could she do?
#
The
Hendersons’ van pulled up in front of my house the next morning, and Josh
tooted the horn. I snagged a muffin off the kitchen table, called goodbye to
Uncle Mitch and waved at Mrs. Mateo, our housekeeper, on my way out. After
settling in the back seat of the van beside Bree, I gave Josh sitting behind
the steering wheel a glance under my lashes. Football had changed him from the
lanky kid he used to be. "Is he going to the dance with the chick?" I
whispered to Bree.
Bree
nodded. "You really should have stuck around. It was pretty
hilarious."
"Shut
it, Bree," Josh growled without looking at her as he put the van in gear.
His voice had also dropped an octave in the last year or so.
"One
of the twins let the dogs in," Bree continued.
"Oh
no!"
"Yeah,"
Lincoln piped in. "That was before Josh got home."
"And
then Penguin started vomiting," said Gabby, Bree’s baby sister.
"Oh
no!" I repeated as if I was surprised. Which I wasn’t.
"So
basically, Josh followed dog vomit up the stairs," Bree said.
"Mom
was so mad!" Lincoln said.
"Shut
it, Lincoln," Josh growled as he shifted the van into second gear.
"Josh
has to pay for the carpet cleaner," Bree told her.
"Oh,
that's not really fair," I said. "I mean, it wasn't his idea--"
"We
had to all clean our rooms before the Magic Carpet people came," Gabby
said.
"And
there isn't even a real magic carpet," one of the twins said.
"Yeah,"
the identical brother chirped. "It's dumb because it's just a name. They
don't fly or anything."
"They
don't even pick up stuff--we had to do that," Gabby huffed.
“So,
we all pretty much hate that chick,” Lincoln said.
I
caught Josh's eye in the rearview mirror. His cheeks flooded with color before
he fixed his attention on the road.
Later,
in my history class, while Mr. Benson talked about the bubonic plague, I
thought about how I would ask someone to a dance. I wouldn't spread chicken
nuggets around, and I definitely wouldn't call myself a hot chick. I also
wouldn't wear a chicken costume. I almost felt sorry for Josh because how could
he say no to someone who had spent hundreds of dollars on chicken nuggets/dog
treats?
The
bell rang before I could come up with my own clever, inexpensive, and not
barfing-bad way to ask a guy to a dance.
Troy
stood beside my desk and blinked at me through his glasses. The lenses were so
thick, they distorted his eyes, giving him a Yoda appearance.
"I'd
be honored to go to the dance with you," he said.
We
had never actually spoken before, and the normalcy of his voice surprised me.
Almost as much as his words. "What?" It was my turn to blink at him.
"The
dance," he said. "Thanks for asking. I'd be happy to take you."
"But...I
didn't ask you to the dance."
He
started to stutter. "Y-you wrote me a letter." He fished in his
backpack.
"It
must have been a different Evelynn," I told him.
"You're
the only Evelynn I know," he said.
I
thought about pointing out that we really didn't know each other at all, even
though we'd been going to the same school since kindergarten...well, since I
was in kindergarten and he was in second grade since he was two grades ahead of
me.
He
slapped a handwritten note on the desk separating us. Sure enough, it had my
name on it, and above that was an invitation to the dance.
"I
got the same note." Harrison stood beside Troy and his chin sank to his
chest, coming just inches above the Justin Bieber pin fastened to the lapel of
his navy blue blazer.
"You
did?" My voice squeaked. I cleared it and tried to sound normal.
"I
knew it was too good to be true," Harrison said as he scrounged through
his leather book bag. Moments later, he pulled out an identical note.
"You
could go with both of us," Troy said hopefully.
Harrison
looked up and met Troy's gaze. They seemed to come to a silent agreement.
"I'd be okay with that."
"But...I'm
sorry. I didn't write those. I can't go with a date to the dance. I'm going as
a reporter for the Herald."
"I
thought only upperclassmen could be on the paper," Troy said.
"Sometimes
Cox lets sophomores write guest pieces so he can know who can make the paper as
juniors," Harrison told him.
"If
you go with us, you don't have to write the article," Troy said.
Harrison
straightened his shoulders. "Yeah. We're both upperclassmen, so we're your
ticket in."
Troy
gave him a high-five.
"But
I want to write the article. I want a ticket onto the paper, not to a
dance."
The
guys both seemed to deflate.
"You
can find someone else to go with." I gathered up my books and headed for
the science building.
"Yeah?
Like who?" Troy demanded, trailing after me.
"I
don't know. Who do you want to go with?"
"You,"
Troy said.
I
blew out a breath. "I'm not going to the dance with you! Either of you!
I'm sorry!"
"You
don't sound sorry," Harrison said before shuffling away in the opposite
direction.
"I
think you're going to change your mind," Troy said, matching my stride.
"When we get to the dance, you're going to feel awkward and alone--being
the only sophomore there and all. You'll be glad for my company."
"You
better go to class." The bell rang before I could add something mean. I
knew the guys weren’t to blame. This situation reeked of Melissa.
Troy
gave me a determined smile before trotting down the hall.
In
biology, I took my usual seat near the window. Most of the class were already
in their chairs, but Mr. Beck hadn't arrived yet. Just then the four Lounge
Lizards, the barbershop quartet who frequently serenaded students in the
cafeteria, positioned themselves in the front of the room directly across from
Chester the rat's cage.
"Dance
with me when the sun is high," the Lounge Lizards broke out in four-part
harmony. "Dance with me beneath the stars."
"Yes,
you, Evelynn Marston!" Frankel, a squatty tenor, pointed a finger at me
and winked.
Sniggers
and laughter broke out around the room.
I
bounced to my feet. "What are you talking, huh, singing about?"
Frankel
jumped onto a table and wailed, "Let me be with you when the moon is
bl-u-e."
Laughter
surrounded me and thundered in my ears. Chester the rat squeaked and scampered
in his cage. The flames warming the Bunsen burners turned blue and crackled.
The electricity in the air fizzled and I felt it lifting my hair off the back
of my neck. Heat crawled up my spine and flushed my cheeks. I held out my hands
to beg Frankel to stop. The Bunsen burners flashed. The air sparked.
Just
then, I was seven years old again and my parents were yelling. My father called
my mother a whore. My mother called my father a controlling oaf. The mirror in
the hallway shattered. Shards flew around the room like dancing bits of stars
caught in a wind tunnel. Stunned, my parents hushed.
"And
now we're throwing things. Very mature, Sophia," my dad said.
"I
didn't throw anything," my mom said.
Both
my parents looked at me.
Screaming
shook me out of the memory. Students trampled to exit the room now shimmering
in silver smoke. Flames crept up the walls. Colors flashed around me, and I
fell to my knees.
Someone
grabbed me and lifted me up. I couldn't see her face, but she was small, wiry,
and reminded me of my mother. "Mom?"
"She's
delirious," a deep voice said.
"Crazy,"
said a girl's voice—Melissa’s. "She'll do anything for a newspaper
story."
My
knees buckled as I stumbled outside. All around me, kids stood huddled in
groups--girls holding each other, boys trying to hide their shock. Teachers
yelled at everyone to stay back as the fire consumed what had once been the
science building.
A
small cheer went up as a kid ducked out of the building holding Chester the
rat's cage over his head. Sirens sounded in the distance.
I
braced myself against a tree and watched the chaos around me. This is what it's
like to witness an ending, I thought. Just like the broken mirror had marked
the end of my parents’ marriage, I knew that with the destruction of the
science building, somehow my life at Hartly would never be the same. It
wouldn't be just a matter of new microscopes, desks, tables, chairs, periodic
tables, Petri dishes--although all those things would have to be replaced.
Everything
would be different now because people would treat me differently, even though I
would still be, basically, the same person.
Or
so I thought.
The End
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