Kelly McClymer-Salem Witch 01 The Salem Witch Tryouts (16 page)

Tara’s frozen smile was cheerleader perfect, but I could read the frown beneath it. Big deal. I wasn’t going to blow this chance just because the head cheerleader hated me.

Now that I knew what to expect, I managed to do it again without smacking into the floor. Granted, I was slower than some of the others, but I landed gracefully on my feet, in the right position and with the all-important smile on my face. I suspected that Tara could read the message hiding behind that smile: “Eat my chalk dust, witch.”

I watched, holding my breath until I was dizzy, hoping that somehow all the crappy gymnasts had gotten into the end of the line. No such luck. Only two girls out of the twenty-two who had come to tryouts weren’t able to make the move on the first or second try.

Marlys Bledsoe, who was in my remedial spells class (and who had just this morning turned a frog into Eminem—
Mr. Phogg had quickly wiped his memory and zapped him back to the oblivion into which he’d fallen), started spinning so fast, the coach had to zap her into one of the padded walls to stop her. I felt for her as she slid down the padded wall. Before her feet hit the floor, she disappeared, her wail of dismay trailing off abruptly.

Despite my fear that the same thing would happen to me, the sight of Marlys sliding down the wall was funny. But I didn’t laugh, and neither did the other girls—Marlys had a reputation for turning laughing people into toadstools when she was in the throes of massive humiliation, and we all knew we’d never make the squad if we were toadstools.

Another girl, whose name I hadn’t quite caught, would have done fine, except she had this little … problem: She disappeared when she cried. And she cried (with joy, I think) when she finished her move successfully. I could relate, because back in fifth grade I’d had a habit of disappearing when I got really upset. Mom had to wipe a lot of memories that year. I waited for Invisi Girl to appear again, so I could offer some sympathy. But apparently she knew she wasn’t going to make the cut based on her unfortunate tic, because we all waited for her to reappear to no avail.

After a while, Coach sighed. “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, head-first, 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?”

“No, no. I’m sure it will help me make my final decisions.” Coach Gertie glanced at us, lined up waiting like so many puppies in a discount pet shop cage. “It is so difficult. I wish I could take you all.”

Behind her, Tara had dropped the innocent act—it probably hurt to keep it up for so long, the beeyotch weeyotch. She looked like she thought we were all going to fail—but she was looking right at me as the first girl stepped up. 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, even in my childhood days, before I’d learned how nervous my magic made Dad. It felt glorious!

I finished the routine and landed on the beam with no problem, even striking a graceful pose (if I do say so myself). It felt good to have something solid under my feet. But then I made the mistake of looking down. Way down. The coach and the other girls looked like they were faraway Munchkins.

You can fly
, the practical inner voice in my head said to my lurching and uncertain stomach.
You can fly
. So I told my feet to kiss the beam good-bye, confidently dove off head-first … and immediately lost my lunch. I could have sworn I heard Tara chuckle, but it might have been my imagination. Because I was pretty busy trying to figure out which to do first: pull out of the dive or try to hold back the puke.

I would probably have crashed directly into the floor (after showering the girls below me with half-digested curry) if Coach Gertie hadn’t acted fast. A bucket at the center of an inverted umbrella appeared below me, protecting those beneath from my unfortunate regurgitation. And just in time. Although I suppose it might have been worth the humiliation to see Tara’s perfect uniform messed up.

No such luck. My plunge became a float. The umbrella/ bucket thing disappeared just before it hit the floor, no
thanks to me. Coach didn’t even look like she was straining to keep me safe as I found myself turning gently in midair and landing on my feet in slow motion. All eyes were on me. So I gave my best Queen Elizabeth wave. I couldn’t help it. Happily, everyone laughed. Except Tara. And Coach Gertie.

“It would be best if you went home to recuperate now,” Coach said briskly.

“I’m fine.” I knew I wasn’t. I inherited my mother’s fair skin and tendency to turn grayish-blue when I wasn’t feeling well, and I could see by the coach’s expression that she was afraid I would faint right then and there.

“Nonsense. Go home, Miss Stewart. Tryouts are over.”

I was humiliated. I tried to accept defeat, but it was as bitter as the bile in my throat. “I—”

Coach pointed to Tara. “Your head cheerleader and I will discuss the tryouts over the weekend.” Coach looked right at me when she added, “I’m proud of all of you for trying your best. If you don’t make the team this year, please try again next year.”

One of the iffier girls—not as iffy as me, of course—asked timidly, “When will we …?”

Coach smiled the smile of a woman who had heard that question about a zillion times in her lifetime. “The list of those of you who made the team will be posted on the wall Monday afternoon. Have a nice weekend, girls.”

A nice weekend? As if. If I were still at Beverly Hills, it would be me and my coach deciding who would work well on the team this year. Instead, I could just imagine the conversation between Coach Gertie and Tara about me. Not that I wanted to go there. But I knew well enough that I would have cut me. I’m a great cheerleader for a mortal school. But put me in the air and I’m a disaster waiting to happen. How could they ignore that?

Maybe it was just time to do a little begging and pleading at home. I’d rather be cheerleading at Beverly Hills High with Chezzie as head cheerleader than stuck in remedial classes at Agatha’s without a chance to prove my kewl to the school. As much as I dreaded talking to Mom, it was time for a heart-to-heart. She might just see how important it was for me to go home, where cheerleaders got on the team for groundwork talent—and nobody thought of me as a loser with a capital
L
.

“How did the tryouts go?” Mom was always so cheerfully unaware of how hard it was to be sixteen that I wanted to scream. For the first time I envied mortal kids. They might not be able to fly or summon or cast spells (not that I could do it so well right now either), but at least their parents only had to remember back a few decades to sixteen rather than a few centuries.

“I’m tired. Do you mind?” I had a zillion questions, but
they felt like they were trapped behind a dam. If I let one go, the rest would follow in a rush so loud, the world would go deaf.

My mom never yells. She just raises an eyebrow. It makes it hard to play the beeyotch card. But after my pitiful performance today, I wasn’t in the mood to be reasonable, sweet, or even just sulky. I needed to vent. And I could feel myself morphing into super-beeyotch. “Do you think that I want to be interrogated?”

Mom has never been a beeyotch. Ever. At least, not that I’ve ever seen. Which is sometimes hard to believe, considering Grandmama is listed in the dictionary under the definition. But Mom’s always been the oddball in her family (case in point: marrying a mortal and living with almost no magic for nearly twenty years).

Granted, Mom’s not as easy on the parental front as my friends have always thought. She likes me to be honest, trustworthy, sensible. I think sensible is the hardest. Sensible meant not using my magic when I was young. Grandmama tells stories about when I was a baby and used to do all sorts of magic. But I don’t really remember those times. I just remember Mom’s eyebrow raising when I even thought about it. And how Dad’s smile would freeze and turn wavy.

“I’m sorry.” Mom jumped to—I concede—the most logical conclusion, considering my mood. “I’m sure you’ll make it next year.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I said as sarcastically as I could. “Actually, we find out Monday.” Not that I doubted my all-too-slim chance of being on the list. But I didn’t want to tell her that. I wanted to go to my room, pack my bags, and drive my little Jetta to Maddie’s, where I could hide in her closet forever with an endless supply of sushi.

“Great!” Mom really sounded as if she didn’t have a clue how out of place I was at Agatha’s. In Salem. Dad, okay, I could understand why he wouldn’t get it. He’d never been a witch. But Mom?

“Don’t hold your breath that I’ll make the squad. Haven’t you heard the news on the witch hotline? The new girl sucks at magic.”

“You don’t suck at magic. You just need to learn—”

“I’ve been working hours on my homework. Half of Saturday with Samuel. How long is it going to take me to catch up?” I was trying not to cry, but my voice did come out a little quivery. And then I saw Mom’s reaction to my question—a slight hesitation that said it all. “Will I ever?”

“Of course you will, honey. It just takes time.” Mom didn’t meet my eyes. She just turned away and started scrubbing the kitchen counter. The mortal way, of course. Classic avoidance.

I tried to make the extra sponge scrub another spot farther along the counter. But all it did was hover over the
granite countertop like it was waiting for instructions. Great. “Why did you do this to us?”

Mom stopped scrubbing and, with a little wave of her hand, the countertops were clean and the sponges settled themselves on the back of the sink. “It wasn’t an easy decision, Prudence, but your father and I agree it was a wise one. Tobias—”

“I’m not talking about Tobias, your gifted-and-
Talented
child. I’m talking about me, the ungifted and Talentless. Why did you raise us as mortals even though we’re witches? Did you already know I was going to be a loser?”

“Oh, honey! No! Not at all.” Mom started to open the cupboard and take out two glasses, but she stopped and got her “serious talk” look as she sat down at the table. Two glasses of chocolate milk and a plate of peanut butter cookies appeared in front of her. “Magic in the mortal realm can get you into trouble, especially when you’re young. And”—she bit her lip as she confessed—“it upset your father, since he can’t do magic.”

I wasn’t interested in milk and cookies, even if they did smell very peanut buttery. “Then why couldn’t we just have stayed in Beverly Hills? I have zero chance of making the squad, Mom. And if that’s not bad enough, I’m never going to get out of remedial spells!”

“I know it’s hard for you right now. And I’m sorry. I thought we could live just fine without magic. But when
Tobias started having trouble controlling his powers, I realized I was wrong.” Mom looked like she might come over to hug me, but one look at my face told her the welcome mat was
not
rolled out. “But I promise, you are not a loser when it comes to witchcraft. You’ll learn.”

“Will I? I am half mortal, after all.”

“Of course you will. A witch is a witch is a witch. If you were going to be mortal, you wouldn’t be able to summon a paper plate, never mind levitate!”

“Really?” I wasn’t sure I believed her. There was something about the way she said it that made it sound like she was leaving out something important. “So why haven’t I manifested a Talent yet?”

“I’m sure that since you’re now practicing magic instead of avoiding it, you’ll manifest a Talent in no time at all.”

I still didn’t buy it. But I have seen the value of hard work. Or, at least I had back in Beverly Hills. “So you’re saying all I have to do is cram sixteen years of magic practice into the next few weeks and my Talent will manifest?” I summoned one of the cookies and took a small bite. Yum.

At that, Mom looked more nervous than she should have. “I wouldn’t go that far, honey. There’s no need to rush things.”

No need to
rush
things? Right. The tiny bite of cookie felt like a stone going down as I swallowed. It was time for Mom to understand that I may have been slotted into remedial magic classes, but I was still no slouch when it came to
understanding the way the world worked. “Right now I’m studying like crazy and
barely
managing to maintain my grades.”

“You’ll catch up. You’re doing so well.”

Sigh. Why is it that parents think if they say something often enough, you’ll believe it? “Mom! I just came back from a cheerleading tryout session that made me wonder if I’ll
ever
cut it in the witchworld. And Chezzie was named head cheerleader, so even if we go back to Beverly Hills, I’ll have to spend the year watching her take the credit. My choices are very simple: Get up to speed at Agatha’s in record time, or go home.”

“Going home for us, right now, is not—”

I didn’t want to hear any more reasons. I’d heard them all before. I felt my hair lift around my head as I tried to keep my anger in. “I know you guys can’t go, because of Tobias. I get it. I don’t want to unleash another Chernobyl on the world because that pipsqueak didn’t get trained properly.”

I took a deep breath. I was trying to hold it in, I really was. But my cookie spun out of my hand, smacking into the cabinets, leaving smears and crumbles everywhere until there was no cookie left. Whoa. I hadn’t had a temper tantrum like that since I was little. It was time for a little yoga breathing. I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t see Mom staring at the peanut butter cookie decorated kitchen. I
breathed in. I breathed out. My hair stopped writhing around my head.