Kelly McClymer-Salem Witch 01 The Salem Witch Tryouts

She—s a cheerleader with a truly CHARMED Life.

KELLY McCLYMER

SIMON PULSE

“Okay, Tara, demonstrate the next one.”

Tara sent a nasty little “Try this, scud” smile to me before she raised her arms and rose into the air much faster than last time. She did a series of complicated spins and tucks, ending up on one of the steel beams of the gym, poised like a gymnast on the balance beam. She then dove off, headfirst, went into a controlled spin, and pulled out just in time to land on the floor.

Coach Gertie seemed surprised. “My, my. You must think well of these girls, Tara, to give them such a difficult routine.”

Tara looked like a picture of innocence. “Was that too difficult?”

Great. My first enemy and she’s this year’s head cheerleader.

I thought I’d been smart, making sure I was at the end of the line. That way, I could scope out the mistakes other girls made and avoid them. Why was it that I kept forgetting my magic skills were at the remedial level? By the time it was my turn, my stomach was protesting the whole idea of doing a routine in midair. I ignored it. I wanted to make the squad. Strike that. I
needed
to make the squad, and chickening out wasn’t going to make it happen.

I raised my arms over my head and shot up faster than I ever had ….

Also by Kelly McClymer

Getting to Third Date

THE
Salem
Witch
Tryouts

KELLY McCLYMER

Simon Pulse

New York  London  Toronto  Sydney

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

SIMON PULSE
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com

Copyright © 2006 by Kelly McClymer

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

SIMON PULSE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

Designed by Ann Zeak

The text of this book was set in Berthold Garamond.

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Simon Pulse edition October 2006

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Control Number 2005937180

ISBN-13: 978-1-4169-1644-4

ISBN-10: 1-4169-1644-X
eISBN-13: 978-1-439-10380-7

To Dad, who taught me everybody has a story. You just have to listen. Thanks.

This book wouldn’t be what it is now if not for the talent and
support of my agent, Nadia Cornier; my editor, Michelle Nagler;
and two women with expertly critical eyes: Beth Dunfey
and Kelly Moore. Their gentle prodding ensured that Pru’s world
made it to the page in as much detail as could possibly
be tucked into these pages.

Life is unfair. Mega unfair. And it’s all my parents’
fault.
I
certainly wouldn’t choose to leave the house I was practically born in, not to mention all my friends, my school, my
world
. And just how sneaky was it to give me the cell phone I’ve been begging for since before I left for cheerleading camp (picture phone, text messaging, unlimited minutes, the works) just before dropping the bomb?

I should have known something was up. But, no. I was not prepared for them to spring the bad news—no, strike that. The
catastrophic
news.

We’re moving. New state, new house, new school. No more sleepovers, no more a.m. gab fests with Maddie before school. No more … anything. Except, of course, magic.
That I can have. As if I want it. My life has been just fine without magic for almost sixteen years. So why do I need it now?

Mom and Dad are lucky that they have me for their daughter. Ten years of academic excellence and five years of cheerleading have taught me how to handle any crisis like Jane Bond-shaken, not stirred. Even when said crisis comes with a major twist.

I guess it’s not surprising that, at almost four hundred years old, Mom thinks it’s no big deal to uproot us. Witches think different, I learned that before I learned to walk. But Dad has no excuse. He’s not even fifty yet, and he’s mortal. He’s attached to his things in a way witches outgrow around the hundredth birthday (or so says Mom when I ask why I can’t have Dolce & Gabbana like the other kids).

I’d say my life is over, but I’ve used that line so often, it doesn’t even get an eye roll from Dad. Would you believe Mom even did a little spell to make harp sounds play-just like she used to do back when I was thirteen and, I admit, a teensy-weensy bit of a whine-o-mat. And all I’d said, quite reasonably, was “I want to stay and live with Maddie until I graduate.”

If only they were reasonable. But I guess I should know by now that
reasonable
is not one of the weapons in the parental arsenal.

Mom and Dad tried to softball the news that we were
moving from Beverly Hills, California, to Salem, Massachusetts, by telling us our new house had an indoor pool. Big whoop. Our old house had an outdoor pool, no snow in the forecast for a zillion years, and Beverly Hills High School, where I was going to be the very first junior to be named head cheerleader and maybe, just maybe, run for student council.

“You’ll be running your new high school before long,” Mom teased, as if she thought swapping schools was as easy as swapping Swatch bands.

Dad was more serious, as always. “As long as you keep your grades up, we’ll be happy, Prudence honey. We don’t need you to be head cheerleader or elected to class government to know you’re special.”

Special. He says that word with a wince. Poor Dad. He never really got used to living with a witch or raising two children who could do magic. If I were a good daughter, unselfish and properly thinking of my family, I’d appreciate how hard it was for him to agree to my mother’s request to take us to Salem, her birthplace, so that we could learn to use the magic that had been highly discouraged here in the mortal realm.

Why did they suddenly decide to make this move? Did Dad get a fabulous new job at his advertising company so Mom and I could splurge on shopping and spa weekends? As if. No. We’re moving because of Dorklock—otherwise
known as my younger brother, Tobias. When the hormones hit, he couldn’t control his magic. After the third time poor Miss Samsky’s skirt flew up in the middle of summer school math class, my mother had our house up for sale and my golden life at Beverly Hills High up in flames. Boys are dumb. Especially when they’re twelve. I would have voted to send him away to magic boarding school. But I don’t get a vote. Because life is unfair.

I think Dad was tempted. After all, he is a non-magical mortal who is much happier when there are strict rules against uncontrolled magic in the house. But the idea that my brother could go to a school where teachers would be able to do simple spells against his simpleton magic until he learns to control it was a strong argument. Besides, my mother said she’d move us to Salem with Dad or without him. And he really adores her, no matter how much magic makes him nervous.

Dorklock doesn’t even mind that he’s ruined our lives. He thinks it’s cool that we’ll be in Salem, living in the witch realm and able to use our magic without the usual restrictions we have in order to live with mortals. What can I say? He’s a kid. He doesn’t understand that, as the newbies in school, we’ll be on a lower scale than even the lowliest freshman. Of course, he’s used to being a scud, the lowest of the low.

But I’m not. I’m honor society. I was going to be head
cheerleader. My life was supposed to be charmed, even with the big, bad magic prohibition. I had it all arranged—head cheerleader, and then maybe even class president. Fast-track ticket to the college of my choice in my pretty pink Coach bag. After all, I deserved it. I’d been working on being kewl since preschool. In Beverly Hills.

Thank goodness I know how to plan for the—majorly—unexpected. If I have to go (and apparently I do), I intend to keep my kewl. Even if I have to use magic to do it. Which is going to be a mondo change. Me, doing magic and not getting grounded for it.

But even I could not have prepared for just how fast our lives were about to change. The first thing that told me my life was going to do a midair flip in turbo speed was the actual day of departure. Instead of moving men and moving trucks, Mom flashed everything from our old house to our new house. One minute there, the next, gone. Dad kept watch at the window to make sure no nosy neighbors saw our insta-move.

Mom’s sentimental and likes rituals, so we all stood in the living room and said farewell to the house. We sprinkled just a bit of incense to leave the next family a nice welcome, and then she said softly,

“Bless this house and all its walls,
We have lived here safe and sound.
Now we move to our new home,
Shift our things and cleanse this ground.”

Zip zap. Empty rooms. Clean rooms. Fresh, blah cream paint on the walls. Even though the empty rooms of the house echoed and looked strange without all our furniture and knickknacks, I’d coped. But then I noticed that she hadn’t just painted and cleaned with a zap.

“What happened to the lines on the door?” The careful nicks in the living room door frame that had charted my growth—and Dorklock’s, of course—were gone. Missing. The wood was smooth, the paint perfect.

I’d been holding it together ever since Mom and Dad had said we were moving. No discussion. No appeals. No surprise. A cheerleader knows how to put a smile on, after all. But sometimes a girl’s gotta let her true feelings be known so she doesn’t get squashed flat like a frog on the freeway.

“The real estate agent will have an easier time selling the place if we leave it spiffed up,” Dad said. “Wouldn’t want someone new to have to do all the sanding and painting and such.”

It was another sign that everything familiar was being turned upside down—Dad never calmly accepts Mom using “big” magic. Which is pretty much anything more than zapping an extra serving of popcorn if we run out and it’s
too late to run to the market. Normally I’d suspect him of taking a couple of Xanax, but he was about to drive and he doesn’t even take an antihistamine if he’s going to be behind the wheel. My dad makes a square look like it has sloppy corners.