Read Online Kelly McClymer-Salem Witch 01 The Salem Witch Tryouts by Kelly McClymer - Free Book Online
Authors: Kelly McClymer
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meeting in the locker room. He did, however, zap the non-glowy equation away quickly, before anyone else had noticed that I air-wrote like a five-year-old. My hero.
“Very good! You have a mind for math, Miss Stewart.” He said it in a kindly way, as if being able to do the equations was more important than writing them well. I think we both knew that wasn’t true, but it was nice of him to pretend.
I’d know how to write my equations neatly in the air by tomorrow’s class, with extra glowiness, I vowed. I wanted him to think I was special, not “special,” if you know what I mean.
After calculus came lunch. In Beverly Hills, that meant fighting the starving mobs to get a decent place in line so there would be time to talk as well as eat at the varsity cheerleaders’ table. At Agatha’s, the classroom popped away and we were left in a big hallway with lockers. There was a set of doors that led to the lunchroom. I didn’t look for my locker—I didn’t have anything to put in it or take out of it. Besides, lunch was one more time when I wasn’t stuck with the remedial label on my forehead. I knew how to eat. Time to scope out what was what. And let them scope out what I had to offer: kewl to burn.
I faced the doors, prepared to pick a nonthreatening person to go through line with and charm out a table invite. A little gossip, a little safety in numbers. Perfect for the first day of a kewl coup.
The strategy would have worked in a mortal school. But lunchtime was no different from the rest of the day at Agatha’s. Everything was just enough off from a mortal school day that I knew we weren’t in Kansas anymore, Toto.
I waited until the hallway emptied enough that I would have some choice as to whom to sit with (the worst thing new kids can do is sit down at an empty table only to find no one else will sit there). I spotted a nice-looking girl to get in line behind—not too pretty, and not ugly. I stepped through the doors prepared to turn around my no good, very bad, horrible day.
As if. Agatha’s didn’t need a cafeteria that served up overcooked, underflavored food, or a line to pay for the privilege either. Instead, the room was set with small tables and comfy chairs, and it was filled with the scents of exotic cuisines from all countries and regions. The cultural diversity at Agatha’s seemed to include a few cultures that had died out in the mortal world. I spotted at least two guys wearing togas and one in what I swear was bear—not stylish fur, mind you, but the whole bearskin, head and all. More like a declaration of war on fashion than a statement.
The girl I’d followed in sat with friends and evaporated from possibility to impossibility. I did a quick scope of the room to see where I should sit. All my instincts were scrambled, though, because I couldn’t tell what group was what in witchworld, except of course for the A-list tables of girls and the A-list tables of boys. They stood out, even dressed in the wide range of styles that passed for fashion sense at Agatha’s.
I knew I couldn’t try to get in with that group: the kewl girls who sat laughing and chatting over salads. I pegged them for varsity something, probably a mix of mostly cheerleaders, soccer players, and basketball players.
I looked around, trying to figure out the groups. The first thing I noticed was color. It was funny, but one corner of the room had a blue theme going, while the opposite corner was definitely going with browns and greens, then therewas the blacks and reds and the silvery blues and grays shimmering in the last corner. The middle of the room contained all the colors, but everyone seemed to have some white element to their outfit, whether it be a white belt, purse, or bleached-white hair. Interesting, but what did it mean? Worse, what did it mean that the varsity tables were a total mix of styles and colors? At least in the street clothes.
Just when I was afraid I was going to have to eat
“Very good! You have a mind for math, Miss Stewart.” He said it in a kindly way, as if being able to do the equations was more important than writing them well. I think we both knew that wasn’t true, but it was nice of him to pretend.
I’d know how to write my equations neatly in the air by tomorrow’s class, with extra glowiness, I vowed. I wanted him to think I was special, not “special,” if you know what I mean.
After calculus came lunch. In Beverly Hills, that meant fighting the starving mobs to get a decent place in line so there would be time to talk as well as eat at the varsity cheerleaders’ table. At Agatha’s, the classroom popped away and we were left in a big hallway with lockers. There was a set of doors that led to the lunchroom. I didn’t look for my locker—I didn’t have anything to put in it or take out of it. Besides, lunch was one more time when I wasn’t stuck with the remedial label on my forehead. I knew how to eat. Time to scope out what was what. And let them scope out what I had to offer: kewl to burn.
I faced the doors, prepared to pick a nonthreatening person to go through line with and charm out a table invite. A little gossip, a little safety in numbers. Perfect for the first day of a kewl coup.
The strategy would have worked in a mortal school. But lunchtime was no different from the rest of the day at Agatha’s. Everything was just enough off from a mortal school day that I knew we weren’t in Kansas anymore, Toto.
I waited until the hallway emptied enough that I would have some choice as to whom to sit with (the worst thing new kids can do is sit down at an empty table only to find no one else will sit there). I spotted a nice-looking girl to get in line behind—not too pretty, and not ugly. I stepped through the doors prepared to turn around my no good, very bad, horrible day.
As if. Agatha’s didn’t need a cafeteria that served up overcooked, underflavored food, or a line to pay for the privilege either. Instead, the room was set with small tables and comfy chairs, and it was filled with the scents of exotic cuisines from all countries and regions. The cultural diversity at Agatha’s seemed to include a few cultures that had died out in the mortal world. I spotted at least two guys wearing togas and one in what I swear was bear—not stylish fur, mind you, but the whole bearskin, head and all. More like a declaration of war on fashion than a statement.
The girl I’d followed in sat with friends and evaporated from possibility to impossibility. I did a quick scope of the room to see where I should sit. All my instincts were scrambled, though, because I couldn’t tell what group was what in witchworld, except of course for the A-list tables of girls and the A-list tables of boys. They stood out, even dressed in the wide range of styles that passed for fashion sense at Agatha’s.
I knew I couldn’t try to get in with that group: the kewl girls who sat laughing and chatting over salads. I pegged them for varsity something, probably a mix of mostly cheerleaders, soccer players, and basketball players.
I looked around, trying to figure out the groups. The first thing I noticed was color. It was funny, but one corner of the room had a blue theme going, while the opposite corner was definitely going with browns and greens, then therewas the blacks and reds and the silvery blues and grays shimmering in the last corner. The middle of the room contained all the colors, but everyone seemed to have some white element to their outfit, whether it be a white belt, purse, or bleached-white hair. Interesting, but what did it mean? Worse, what did it mean that the varsity tables were a total mix of styles and colors? At least in the street clothes.
Just when I was afraid I was going to have to eat
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