Kelly McClymer-Salem Witch 03 She's A Witch Girl (2 page)

Watching him stand at the head of the holiday table carving the turkey, you’d never guess he ever had a doubt about the move. He was pretty cheerful as he forked perfect slices of turkey onto the corny turkey-shaped plate he always used on Thanksgiving. “I just want to thank everyone for joining us for our first Thanksgiving in Salem.” He looked pointedly at Dorklock and then at me as he went on. “I hope you
two realize how very fitting it is that we get to celebrate this holiday in the place where the Pilgrims lived.”

He had that “deep thought” look in his eye. Like he was saying something profound that only Tobias and I could understand. I looked at my friend Samuel, who was sitting next to me, and rolled my eyes.

Samuel didn’t play. So typical. He was a mortal-groupie and thought everything Dad said was brilliant. Plus, he and his dad were invited guests at our family table, and Samuel does have good manners for a witch-geek extraordinaire.

“Sure, Dad,” the Dorklock agreed. Of course he did. He’s the golden child in Salem. And I almost forgot to mention the other rule for holidays was that we were always supposed to agree all day long, no matter what. If Grandma Edna asked if we were doing well in school, we nodded in agreement. If Dad asked if we were having fun, another nod.

Toward the end of the six hours it sometimes got hairy. In the past, I’d managed to avoid breaking the rule by sneaking to my room for a quick scream-fest into my pillow: “No, I do not want another helping of sweet potato. No! That hat you’re wearing makes you look like a ’fashion-don’t’ poster. No! I am not having fun!”

I have no idea how Dorklock survived the holiday yes-fest. For all I knew, he may have created an ever-nodding dopplegänger and escaped off to his video games.

Unfortunately, I didn’t feel like being so agreeable this
year. Sure, I’m on the cheerleading team, and I just managed to get out of remedial magic classes by some miracle. But I’m so far away from where I’d have been in Beverly Hills that I just can’t get into the whole “being thankful” thing this year. I didn’t look at Samuel when I asked my dad, with my patented false-innocence smile, “Which side are the Indians and which side are the Pilgrims?”

Fortunately, before Dad could get mad, everyone laughed. So he moved on to the moment I was dreading most. Picture this: In addition to Samuel and his dad, there are twelve of us (Mom, Dad, me, Dorklock, Grandmama, Grandfather, and Cousin Mike on the witch side; Grandma Edna, Aunt Sylvia, Aunt Donna, her husband, Steve, and their son, Scotty, on the mortal side). The food is steaming on the table in front of us. Our glasses are filled with sparkling cider or champagne, depending on age and preference. Our plates are full. Dad puts the carving knife down, lifts his glass of champagne, and everyone gets quiet, waiting for the inevitable speech about how wonderful it is to have the whole family gathered together yet again.

Dad even gave that tradition a Salem twist this year. “I can almost imagine that there were Pilgrims on this very spot, gathered as we are today. Let us take just a moment to thank them for all they built for us.”

While everyone else did the obligatory head bow, I looked at the ghosts who lived in the house, who were
standing around the table watching the spectacle of the living. There were several dressed in the never-going-to-be-fashionable Pigrim style. They definitely approved of this year’s sentiment. I think they were especially touched by Dad’s words because they knew he couldn’t see them. It almost made the corny tradition seem normal—at least as normal as possible for a half-witch, half-mortal family.

After a second, Dad looked at Samuel’s dad. “Matthias, we are glad you and Samuel could join us. I’d like you to start off the family tradition of going around the table and saying what each of us are grateful for this year.”

Oh, goody. Despite the ghosts of Pilgrims past standing there, I didn’t look forward to the traditional thanks merry-go-round any better this year than I ever had. It seemed so fake. Take, for example, Samuel’s dad giving thanks for being invited to our table. Dude, I hoped that wasn’t the highlight of his year. I tried to catch Samuel’s eye to apologize for the dork-overload, but he was looking at my dad. I only had about a nanosecond of embarrassment-alert before he lifted his glass of sparkling apple cider to take his turn. “I’m grateful that Pru came to my school this year and I found a great new friend.”

I couldn’t believe he’d actually said that. I gave him a swift kick under the table for the ten seconds of surround-sound “ahs” and the double dose of grandmotherly laser vision he’d brought down on us.

Fortunately, Mom gave her thanks and took all the attention away from us. “I’m thankful that I’ve just accepted a position as interim librarian at Agatha’s School for . . . um”—she looked at me—“girls . . .” She looked at Samuel. “And . . . um . . . boys.”

“Excellent!” said Grandma Edna, Aunt Sylvia, and Aunt Donna. They were strong believers in women not being entirely dependent on a man. If they knew how independent Mom was, I think they might have agreed with Grandmama and Grandfather, who both looked appalled as they said, “A job?”

I didn’t hear what anyone else was thankful for because my head was buzzing with the horror of my mother getting a job at Agatha’s. Which was a school for witches, not girls . . . and . . . um . . . boys. Oh, wait, I did tune in for Dorklock’s thanks: “I’m glad Mom got a job at Pru’s school and not mine.” Brat.

I know a cheerleader should have a better attitude. But things had changed so much this year already that I was actually most grateful I still looked like me when I checked myself out in the mirror. So was it any wonder that when it was my turn to be thankful for something that I raised my glass of bubbly cider and said, “I’m thankful I haven’t failed anything. Yet.”

My dad cleared his throat and gave me a look. But I was safe from a lecture with everyone at the table. “My turn,
then.” Dad lifted his glass again and said, “To my wife, who has put together an amazing feast, as usual. To Tobias, who found a pair of clean socks for the occasion.” He paused while everyone laughed. I could see the look in his eye, so I knew to brace for what was coming next. “And to Pru, who has adjusted to her new school with her usual grace.” He ignored my scowl and smiled at everyone around the table. “Now, to quote the Pilgrims at the first feast: ‘Let’s eat.’”

As everyone dug in, I sent a witch-whisper to Samuel’s ear. “Thanks for making sure I get the grandmother-third-degree after dinner.”

He looked guiltily at my dad’s mom—who was sitting next to him—but as soon as he realized I’d witch-whispered instead of spoken aloud, he witch-whispered back, “I
am
glad you came to Agatha’s and that we’re friends.”

My dad startled him by saying his name. “Samuel. Would you like more sparkling cider?”

Samuel wiped the guilty look off his face as soon as he realized that Dad didn’t know we’d been using magic to talk to each other privately. “Yes, I would, thank you for asking.”

“Suck-up,” I witch-whispered, happy that I could torment him at will since witch-whispering didn’t break the no-visible-magic rule.

He surreptitiously flicked a pea off his plate onto mine. “Just telling the truth.” He was, too. What a geeky mortal-groupie.

I flicked the pea back, directly into the gravy swimming on his mashed potatoes. “Like I said, suck-up.”

Samuel’s dad cleared his throat from across the table, and Samuel turned his attention back to his dinner. He witch-whispered an apology, of sorts. “I don’t want to make my dad worry about my manners. He hasn’t been out of the lab since . . . in a really long time.”

I looked at Samuel’s dad. He was pale and thin, with puppy dog eyes much like the ones that Samuel liked to turn on me whenever I was annoyed with him. He hadn’t recovered from Samuel’s mom dying, which apparently was very unusual in a witch so young—so unusual that no one talked about it. “Sorry.”

Uncle Mike diverted me from my curiosity about Samuel’s mom by asking, “How do you like Agatha’s, Pru?”

“It beats jail... a little.” I knew better than to let my irritation run away with me. Uncle Mike can be very annoying, even on a witch scale. Mom says it’s his Talent, something all true witches have. Except me, yet—or maybe ever. There are Air, Water, Fire, Earth, and Magic Talents. Uncle Mike is a Fire Talent. He can’t read people’s minds, but he can read their emotions—and pick them up. I tried to lower the irritation factor. “I made the cheerleading squad, though, so that’s been fun.”

Uncle Mike scoffed, “Cheerleading? Why don’t you go
in for a real sport, Pru? When I was at Agatha’s, I played Dragon Ball.”

“Dragon Ball Z is not a sport!” That from my mortal cousin Scotty.

Mom got her “put out the fire” look and dropped her fork on her plate. “I think Uncle Mike meant football, didn’t you, Uncle Mike?”

“Yeah, right. Football. Only not for sissies,” he muttered. Should I mention again that Uncle Mike (short for Michelangelo—no, he’s not the famous sculptor, he was just named for him) is on my mom’s side of the family? Technically, he’s her uncle, not mine. He and my grandfather are twins, which is rare among witches. And they’re identical, which is almost unheard of. It’s a little gross thinking of him going to Agatha’s when he was young, about a zillion years ago.

My cousin Scotty, a senior football star at a mortal high school, could always be counted on to diss the cheer factor too. “Pru wouldn’t want to break a nail or anything.”

I smiled at him sweetly. “A girl’s got to have good nails. I’m glad I taught you something.”

Dorklock unexpectedly jumped to my defense. “Scotty, you should get her to show you how to do a backflip. She’s pretty good.”

Scotty laughed. “I’m more into tackling, kid.”

To my surprise, my uncle Steve—who tended not to say
anything at all except yes or no because my aunt Donna would inevitably contradict him—laughed and said, “You mean you’re more into
being
tackled.”

Scotty scowled, and I realized, just for a second, that even football stars have their problems. I felt a little guilty about letting my own irritation turn our dinner sour, so I tried to turn it around. “I could teach you a neat backflip you could use to leap over your opposition.”

Everyone laughed. I would have been more annoyed at the lack of respect for my talents (lowercase) if I hadn’t noticed that Mom and Dad relaxed when the subject of Dragon Ball had been safely skated past.

Of course, neither of my grandmothers had forgotten Samuel’s toast. I had to clear away the dishes in between well-aimed advice on my (nonexistent) love life.

Grandma Edna (Dad’s mom): “He’s a very serious young man, Pru, and so polite. He reminds me of your father at that age. But remember, you want to get your career going strong before you settle down.”

Grandmama (Mom’s mom): “He’s a nice enough boy, I suppose. But the family—I don’t like to lay the parents’ sins at the feet of the child.” She looked at Grandma Edna, and then back at me. Her eyebrows wiggled with significance. “Still, you don’t have time for distractions. You have to concentrate on school and on”—with a look at Grandma Edna—“finding your Talent.”

I put down the platter with the turkey carcass and took a deep breath before I said as authoritatively as I could, “We’re just friends.”

I rarely saw my grandmothers have the same reaction to anything at the same time. But they both looked at me like my words had gone through some grandmother-interpreting-machine and come out as, “I’m deeply obsessed and am planning to run away and ruin my life.”

Before they could say anything, I held up the wishbone I’d fished from the turkey and waved it around to emphasize my point. “What is it with everyone? No one used to doubt a word I said.” I looked at Mom first, Dad second. They had both done this to me. “Now that we live in Salem, it seems like I can’t do anything right. According to you, I can’t even know that my friend is just a friend and not a bad romance waiting to happen.”

Dad came to my rescue. “Don’t worry about Pru. She has her priorities straight. She’s been studying so hard, and at the same time she’s helped her cheerleading team do a fund-raiser and start competing, like she did with her old team.”

Okay. It was only a partial rescue. They were my grandmothers, after all. It was their job to put me under the microscope and torment me on the holidays. Tradition and all that.

Grandma Edna: “I’m so proud of you, but you’re looking a bit tired. Are you getting enough sleep?”

Grandmama: “Sleep? There’s time enough for sleep when she’s old like we are, Edna. But competition with”—another glance at Grandma Edna—“other schools? Is that a wise idea?”

“I’m fine.” I hugged Grandma Edna. “I’m more than fine.” I hugged Grandmama. I looked at them both. “Trust me. Okay?”

They smiled and hugged me. But they clearly weren’t ready to trust me. Sigh. Sure, I had a lot of challenges ahead. My regular magic classes began in a week. If my team didn’t get a bid for Nationals at our second shot at Regionals two weeks after that, we were out of luck for this year. Scary thought, since we were far from competition gold in our routines yet.

But, I could do it. I
would
do it. Even if it killed me.

Before all the family togetherness did me in, I slipped off to my room. I sat in the turret window and watched the quiet Salem street in front of my house. And I wondered how I was going to survive—no,
thrive—the
rest of my junior year. I wasn’t even willing to think about senior year yet.

I heard a faint sound and turned to see nothing—no, wait. There was a Thanksgiving card on my bed. It had a picture of a turkey with a big belly and a big smile. Inside, it said, “Have a great T-day, 666 girl. Wish I was there—
not
.”

Daniel. He was the only one who called me 666 Girl. I waited for the card to smoke up and disappear, like all the other notes he had sent me over the last months had done.

But this time the card stayed in my hand. I tucked it into a drawer. Daniel was a distraction I didn’t need. He’d been a bad boy from the first time he’d sent erasers flying toward my face. He’d run away, and I didn’t have any time to puzzle out why he kept tormenting me with these random notes. I had a social ladder to climb.