Kelly McClymer-Salem Witch 02 Competition's A Witch (23 page)

I shrugged, as if I didn’t care what the judges thought. “They’re not the ones who matter.”

That got me a shocked silence, and then, timidly, Yvette asked, “No? Then why are we here?”

Easy. “We’re here to show everyone we rock when we work together. It was too soon to try to place in a competition.”

“
Never
would be too soon,” Tara mumbled.

“Unh-unh. Setting out to win, well, we had all new rules to learn. We concentrate on learning them first. Then we aim for winning.”

As I spoke, I knew how true my words were. I’d done the same thing with learning magic. I’d defined success as being out of remedial classes. I should have defined it as learning as fast as I could. I’d tried to do everything on my to-do list all at once. That never works. I’d learned in kindergarten that you need to make a list, and then cross things off until you’re at your goal.

“So you think we could get better?” Sunita asked.

I smiled. “Can you eat an entire watermelon in one bite?”

Everyone shook their head.

No duh. “But if you break it down, can you get it all eaten?”

They nodded.

“And isn’t it true that the more of you to eat it, the quicker it will get eaten?”

More nods.

“So. Let’s cut getting to Nationals into bits and eat it by March!”

It was a bit of a sappy movie moment then. Every hand shot up in unison, and there were victory signs aimed at the sky. We were the
Witches
! Nothing was going to stop us now.

The day after a tournament, whether you win or lose, always feels a little
less
than tournament day. The adrenaline stops pumping, the bruises start showing, and voices have a throaty rasp. All your mistakes seem larger than life, and there’s nothing you can do about them once they’re made, of course. Until next time.

I was feeling that way. Seeing things I could have, should have done better. Wondering if I
could
do them better. Yes, I’d passed the test and won my way out of remedial classes—-barely. But that meant that now I’d have to do well in regular magic classes. I couldn’t rely on Cousin Seamus and
his time-stretching, either. I’d have to work harder than I already had, just to get to this point.

I’d convinced the team that we could get to Nationals. I’d told them we could win it. They’d believed me. Which was great. Except that they were counting on me to lead them there. And I wasn’t even sure I could pass the regular magic courses now that I was in them.

But, as sore and tired as I was from the struggle to get to where I am today, I was ready to start trying again. I’m already imagining a life where I have a shot at making passing grades in regular magic
and
getting this new, improved team focused on winning a national championship. Maybe.

Wait. Time for a Prutastic attitude adjustment. Make that
definitely
.

Don’t miss out on the magic
in Pru’s next adventure:
She’s a Witch Girl

“I thought you put a zit spell on her not that long ago. So what’s wrong with having a little fun now?” Tara’s eyes were sparkly with the idea of giving my old team a little banana-peel action to mess with their competition mind-set.

I, not being clueless, knew seeing that look should signal me to run. Or, technically, since we
are
witches, to fly. But that was problematic.

Problem one? We were in the bleachers, surrounded by mortals. Problem two? I half hoped Tara might convince me that it was okay to do more than psych out the team that I’d hoped to lead before my move, who were about to perform a kick-pom-pom competition routine if I didn’t do something major to stop them.

It was problem three that made me say, “If we’re going to beat them, we’re going to do it fair and with flair.” Problem three? I’m a good cheerleader, and a good cheerleader never lets jealousy, PMS, or a bad breakup cause a premature competition quake under another team’s feet.

Tara looked around at the crowd of parents and friends, all focused on the championship Beverly Hills team getting
ready to sweep Regionals and take it on to Nationals again. “You’re such a wimp, Pru the Mortal Lover.”

I couldn’t really argue with Tara. She was right. She was willing to go meaner that I ever would. When she’d heard about Maddie, she’d been totally on my side about the zit spell—she didn’t think I’d gone far
enough
.

“Come on,” she urged, refusing to give up. “We aren’t going to hurt them—just shake their pom-poms up a little. What’s the harm in that? It’s not like we’re going to do anything to permanently kill their cheer mojo. Right?”

“True, but …” It finally occurred to me that Tara had heard enough of the scoop about Maddie and me to know I’d be easy to turn over to the dark side. Too easy. Not that I didn’t have qualms. Nope. I had plenty, sitting right in my stomach, twisting my guts into cute little ringlets. And now that I was out of remedial classes—and Coach’s Gertie’s great hope to lead us to a championship—what more tattle-worthy tale would she have than me playing unfair with mortals? Competing mortals, at that. Definitely expel-worthy dirt of the most exclusive nature.

But she had a point I couldn’t deny: The Beverly Hills team was nothing if not great—thanks to me, not that they remembered at all. They were lined up, smiling, completely on for the crowd and ready for the music to start.

Cheer competition is fifty-fifty: 50 percent skill and 50 percent attitude. I knew they had the skill, and everyone
could see they had the attitude. They were going to nail this routine, unless the ceiling fell in, or witch happened. So what would be the harm in creating a little spell to make them forget my routines like they’d forgotten me? I shook my head, refusing the temptation with every last ounce of cheer training I had. “We’ll know we deserve it when we beat them at Nationals.”

The music started, so loud it beat into our bones. Tara and I watched, just like everyone else in the bleachers, as the team moved with a synchronicity and energy that made me want to be down there with them. “They
are
good,” Tara said.

“They should be, they’re using my routines.” And they were, too. All the routines I’d created and saved up in my notebook for the time when I would be head cheerleader at Beverly Hills. My old team was performing them almost as I’d envisioned when I was writing the choreography.

“Are they? Well, I hope you can come up with more, then, because these are amazing.” Tara glanced around at the mesmerized mortals around us. “Do you think you can beat your old choreography?”

Could I? “With one pom-pom tied behind my back.” I wasn’t going to let Tara doubt it, even if
I
did as I watched my routines come to competitive life. I couldn’t even be mad that they’d stolen my notebook, because I’d willingly given it over when my parents had yanked me clear across country. At the time, I’d wanted them to keep winning. But
now, four months later? If I wouldn’t get into trouble with my mom, I’d take the notebook back from my old teammates and wipe their memories clean.

Chezzie had made a few changes, of course. When you were head cheerleader, you had to put your stamp on the year, or you couldn’t hold your head up high. She’d gotten rid of a solo double backflip I’d choreographed just for Maddie. She’d replaced it with a pair, for Chezzie and a new girl I didn’t know. They were good.

I hoped that burned Maddie raw deep inside her heart. But as I watched her, having lost fifteen pounds and gained the confidence to stand without wavering on the raised hands of her teammates, I knew it didn’t—Maddie was a team player, and she was busy nailing her part of the routine. I remembered what that felt like, and I clapped like mad when the music and the girls stopped at exactly the same moment, routine over. Routine
nailed
. The crowd gave them a standing ovation.

For a teeny portion of a second, I felt like a part of the team again. I felt like if I materialized and they saw me, they’d pull me into the victory embrace. Credit me with helping to make the winning routine. Call me a cheer sister again.

But as I saw Maddie run off to do the victory embrace with my old crush Brent, I knew I could never go back.

The words would be right. The credit would be partially mine, but I was no longer a member of the team. They
had moved on, past me.
Way
past me. If I were to show up, it would be like a ghost from the past. Sure, you honor and bow to her, but you don’t expect her to begin eating, breathing, or living on the mortal plane again. Her time has passed.
My
time as a part of the Beverly Hills team had passed.

I stood there breathing shallowly, watching them celebrate the spectacular and no-doubt winning performance as I fought the pain of knowing I was history here.

After a minute, the pain dulled enough for me to speak to Tara as if I weren’t devastated by all this. “I think they’re going to win this competition. So they’ll definitely be one of the top-rated teams in the finals.”

“So if we decide we want to do this national competition thing, we’ll have to beat them? Won’t that be weird for you?” Tara got that glittery look again. “Facing your old team?”

“Yes.” I struggled with the thought. I’d tossed it out there once, in a conversation with Maddie, back when I was still talking—or rather, texting—with her. But I’d never really believed it until now.

Now
. Well, suffice to say that all I wanted was to whip the Witches into shape, sweep the next Regionals to erase our old defeat from cheer memory, and take my old team down. It would be interesting, too—my old mortal routines against my new, witch-world-inspired routines. Me against me.

I thudded back to earth. The only problem was that the Beverly Hills girls understood the power of synchronicity and didn’t think muscle power was beneath them.

The Witches, well, they didn’t have any of that going for them, despite my best efforts. That was why it was so important for me to get Tara to want the win. “Can’t you imagine us? Out there? The crowd cheering for us?”

“Maybe.” She shrugged, clearly not convinced it was worth the effort. “But if we didn’t? How hard would it be for you to lose to the girl who stole your boyfriend?”

Hard. “I’d survive.”

Barely. Not that Maddie had really
stolen
my boyfriend. Technically. If I’d still been in Beverly Hills, I’m sure she wouldn’t have dated Brent and become his girlfriend. And—despite near-daily text messages between us for that first few weeks after my move—forgotten to mention that little fact to me.

“It would be sweet though, wouldn’t it? To take her down a little, like she did you? So would you be willing to use your”—she glanced around at the crowd which was breaking up to go get lunch—”
special
skills to make sure we win?”

I pictured it. There was Maddie, poised for a toss to the rafters. Oops—there was Maddie, awkwardly falling and being caught just before she landed on the floor—but not before she ruined the perfection of the routine. With one little tweak of magic, I could make sure my old team
didn’t win. I could take it away from them, just like how the routines I’d written gave them the chance to win it.

I smiled, happy for one second, before I heard Chezzie’s voice calling my name. I turned my head, going into cheering mode without thought, a big smile plastered on my face, even though what I really wanted to do was run … fly … away. I watched as she climbed up into the bleachers. “Did you see us? I think we nailed it. What do you think?”

“I think you did, too.” I raised my arms in a V and pretended I had pom-poms to shake. “Go team! Win it!”

Some of the other girls had trailed her and were climbing up into the bleachers. A nightmare in living cheer colors. No escape for the Witches. Great.

“Did your parents let you come for a visit?”

“Are you moving back?”

I didn’t see who asked the questions, and I didn’t care. I blurted out, “I wanted to see how my routines worked in competition. Mom and Dad were kewl with it. Thank goodness for the red-eye, huh? You guys were great.”

Chezzie narrowed her eyes when I said “my old routines.” Her smile sharpened up a bit. “Yeah, we worked hard to glitter up those ideas of yours. It was great that you had some notes to get us started with, they really gave us a head start.”

Her words swam around in my head furiously.
Glitter up. Some notes. Head start
. Beeyotch.

Tara had my back, surprisingly enough. “Pru’s a genius with the routines, isn’t she? Wait until you see what she’s done for our team.”

“Are you going to send us a DVD? ’Cause I don’t think any of us are planning to go slumming in Salem any time soon. Are we girls?” There was a faint, unenthusiastic chorus of nos. Chezzie’s competition high was wearing off faster than expected, which left her even more of a tired beeyotch than usual. So sad—for her, not me.

Tara practically purred her answer. “I meant at Nationals, of course. When we beat you.”

Chezzie smiled and shook her finger at me. “It’s not nice to copy other teams’ routines. I’d expect you to know that, Pru; you’ve been on a championship team before.” She looked down her plastic-surgery-perfect nose at Tara. “Unlike some people.”

Big mistake. For a second, I thought Tara might turn her into a ferret, no matter what the consequences. But instead, she just returned Chezzie’s fake helpful tone.

“Don’t be silly. I’m not the kind of head cheerleader who’d use those routines—they’re soooo last summer. Pru’s been working on cutting-edge stuff for the Witches.”

I might have been a bit more worried about the definition of
cutting edge
, if I hadn’t seen Maddie turn to look for Chezzie and catch sight of us standing there in the bleachers. She didn’t start over right away; she looked at
Brent first. She didn’t say anything to him, she just grabbed his hand and dragged him behind her as she walked slowly toward me. Could things possibly get worse?

Chezzie looked at Tara. “You’re head cheerleader?” She turned to me, and I could see her trying to decide how to dull my cutting edge. Just then, Maddie and Brent appeared and Chezzie smiled, pulling Maddie up beside her. “Guess what, Maddie? Pru’s been creating cutting-edge routines for her new team. They think they’re going to beat us.”