Kelly McClymer-Salem Witch 02 Competition's A Witch (7 page)

Burn that dragon!
Beat that drum!
The game’s back on!
Fee fie fo fum!

Being benched at magic games was a bummer. Fortunately, we played more mortal games than magic ones, so I got to cheer more often than not. Which was one teensy good point in my life. Watching witches fly around a court—for games, and for cheering—from the sidelines gave me too much time to think about what I couldn’t do.

Sure, I could practice the moves that I saw others perform. And I did. I’d covered the walls of my room with mirrors, not
from vanity, but from desperation to learn what I needed to know. But it seemed like every time our team—or theirs—cheered, there was a new move that seemed light-years beyond what I could imagine, never mind actually perform.

Maybe I
should
take my mom up on the idea of a sweet sixteen party. It might be the only way I’d ever be part of the team—as the bench warmer with the kewl hangout house.

My house certainly had potential to be a kewl hangout to high school kids. Although it had been built around the time that dinosaurs roamed the earth, it had been renovated with an indoor pool and a single-lane bowling alley. I bet witches would enjoy hanging out there, contrary to the much mistaken impression
The Wizard of Oz
had given about witches and water.

Even though I couldn’t cheer at the witch/witch school games, I learned a lot just sitting on the bench watching the action as the rest of the squad performed for the crowd, sending fire from their pom-poms every time they chanted the word “burn.”

Totally impressive, even without the fact that they were hovering in midair. The only thing that would have made it better was if all the cheerleaders started and stopped the burn at the same time. I couldn’t tell if they were trying, but I thought maybe my lectures about needing to be precise for competition were having a small effect.

Don’t get me wrong, I was proud of my team. But for
witches, apparently, synchronized movements and total dedication to teamwork was asking too much. I’d quickly observed that Agatha’s team was one of the better synced ones in the witch leagues. Some of the other team’s cheerleaders didn’t even try to cheer as a team. They were all into individual performances. I guess no one had told them that cheering was about the team they were cheering for, not about a starlicious moment for the cheerleader.

As I watched my team flying, I thought I saw Elektra actually move out of Tara’s way. Not only avoiding a collision, but creating a genuine moment of teamwork. And maybe it was just my imagination, but I think the Flying V’s looked a lot sharper too. I wiggled with pride, whether it was deserved or not.

Watching the cheerleaders flying and flipping and darting, though, was a great thing for me in more than one way. I was beginning to see cheerleading in 3-D. I was even starting to visualize and create routines in 3-D, a little. As soon as I was out of remedial magic classes, I was going to rock the magic games. Until then, Tara wasn’t going to give my sketchbook a look-unless it was to laugh that I used a sketchbook at all (so mortal !).

I’d been good at cheer choreography back in Beverly Hills. Maybe I could be good here in Salem, too. Mortal cheerleaders push the envelope of non-magic cheering with strength and grace and a lot of momentum. I was beginning
to imagine what all of that, plus the ability to fly and move through the air, could do.

Picture skydiving stunters who never had to land on the ground unless they wanted to. And then imagine them in cute uniforms with perfect hair, brilliant smiles, and just the right makeup to make the face—and its expressions—pop for the roaring crowd.

Best of all, knowing that I could be one of them had me thinking things like “next year” and “when I can do that.” I could close my eyes and picture a senior year with me a full member of the team. With some of my old positive vibe fueling me, I had three routines sketched out by the time the Witches won with a free throw in the last three minutes of the game. Go Witches. Go me.

The thing I was looking forward to most about cheering in a magic game is that, after the team wins, the cheerleaders get to do a mini flying intro to the bleachers. In the mortal realm, cheerleaders never introduce themselves, they just cheer.

I suppose that’s one reason why the team didn’t work together as smoothly as they should. But it was still kewl, and I couldn’t wait to join in.

Picture it. The girls line up in a straight line while they cheer:

Feel The Spirit!
Let Your Energy Burn!
Feel The Spirit!
Burn Witches Burn!

And then, with all eyes in the crowd trained on her, each girl shoots up to the ceiling as her team calls her name. “Elektra! Isabella! Ashandi! Yvette! Cora! Charity! Celestina! Geetha! Minerva! Diana! Jakeera! Marina! Sunita!”

There’s a pause then, as everyone on the team bows low in the air. And then, the cheerleaders start to clap and the head cheerleader slowly, elegantly glides up and does something to wow the crowd as the team shouts, “Tara!”

As I looked on, I dreamed of what I could do if I could convince the team that sharp moves and synchronization mattered. These impressive routines would be even more wow-a-licious. In my head, I could hear the roaring crowds reacting to the perfection of our routines.

But, better than roaring crowds, I dreamed about how turning the team from pewter to platinum would cinch my being head cheerleader next year. Though right now it seemed like an impossible dream, I knew I had to try my best to make it happen or I’d never forgive myself for giving up.

I was busy practicing midair dive rolls in my room when I saw Angelo swing open the iron gate to our yard. I impressed myself with my quick reaction—before he could look up at the house, and maybe directly into my window, I zapped a “see nothing” spell on it. If he looked, he would not see a girl hovering in midair. He would see curtains.

I hovered there for a moment, watching him take the rake and begin to scrape up the red and gold leaves that blanketed the yard. The “see nothing” spell was one way, so I was free to hang there and watch from the turret window in my bedroom, admiring the way his muscles worked under his black T-shirt. I’d never thought of raking as being a sexy thing to do before. No wonder his mother was so successful in getting him
business. He’d have been in demand in Beverly Hills for sure.

It was funny, though. He was handsome, easy to look at, and definitely prom worthy (a girl has to worry about such things if she wants to find the right guy by senior year). But, from far away, it was hard to believe he could melt my synapses the way he had when he’d come to visit with his mother. Don’t get me wrong. It wasn’t like he looked like he’d been beaten with an ugly stick since the last time I’d seen him. Not at all. I guess it was like how, in Hollywood, some totally smokin’-in-person aspiring actors just didn’t translate into hot-on-screen. But even though Angelo wasn’t a ten-alarm hottie from my perch on the second floor, he was still fine-looking in his T-shirt and very well-worn work jeans. Definitely a worthy distraction from my magic practice. If I’d still had my cell phone, I’d have snapped him in a second. And I’ve have sent Maddie the first pic with a text that read: “Melting. Send ice cubes.”

I decided that Angelo looked lonely working by himself. And I was definitely ready for a break. So it seemed like nothing less than an act of human kindness to take him a glass of water. It wasn’t like I was going to flirt or anything. I was just being nice. I knew he was mortal. Off-limits. Not a contestant for the Take Pru to the Prom competition. I knew that. It was just water, okay?

I was halfway down the stairs on my way to the kitchen—on tiptoe and trying to avoid any creaky places in the old
stairs—when … duh … I realized I didn’t have to risk Mom asking me what I was doing sneaking down the stairs like a house thief. Not to mention why I suddenly needed to get a glass of water from the kitchen in one of the good “company” glasses.

Proud of finally being able to handle getting myself from point A to point B—as long as it was a short distance—I popped myself all the way to the front door. I also materialized a glass of water for Angelo without going into the kitchen and having Mom ask me what I was up to.

Even though I hadn’t done both pieces of magic simultaneously, and I was pretty sure most witches my age could, I was feeling pretty good when I walked out the front door—opening the door the mortal way, of course, for the sake of the neighbors. Angelo stopped raking when he saw me. He leaned on the rake as I approached and looked right at me with a smile. Oh, yeah. Definitely back to skin-tinglingly gorgeous status now that I was up-close and personal.

“I saw you working from the window. You looked thirsty.” Okay, not original, but I was already nervous because I knew if Mom caught me, she’d be mad. After the incident with Daniel, she’d been watching me a little more closely when it came to boys. It was a miracle she lifted her alone-with-a-boy-too-long charm even temporarily to let me do my marathon study sessions with Samuel. And
that probably had more to do with trusting Samuel than it did with trusting me.

I glanced at my watch. Fifty seconds left before the one-minute-alone-with-a-guy alarm charm would sound. That was my mom’s way to protect me until I was older and wiser. It was the same protective spell Daniel had created a time bubble to circumvent.

Angelo, unaware of the time limit on my visit, took the glass, drained it in a few gulps, and handed it back. “Thanks. You have a great yard.”

“I guess, if you like yellow and red with a big swath of brown.” I looked around. There were trees, shedding leaves. The grass was turning brown. The flower beds looked huddled up in preparation for winter snow.
Forty seconds
.

“You don’t like it here?” He was looking down at me, because he was so tall, so I couldn’t quite see the expression in his eyes.

I remembered, a teensy bit too late, that his family had been here for generations. Great, Pru. Open mouth, insert both feet and one knee. “Does it show?”

“Kind of.” He grinned at me. Apparently he didn’t take offense that I wasn’t insanely fond of his hometown. “But Mom says you’re from Beverly Hills. Do you know any actors?”
Thirty-five seconds
.

“Not really. Some kids in my high school liked to take acting lessons and earn money as extras, but we didn’t have
anyone on a series or who’d been a named character in a movie.”

I confess, I was a little disappointed that he’d asked that predictable question. Not that it dimmed the wattage of his hottitude. Especially when he leaned in close to confide, “I want to go to Hollywood and act.”

I was confused. “I thought you second-listed Harvard.”
Twenty-five seconds
.

He nodded, as if there were no inconsistency. “Second-listing Harvard’s for my mom. Berkeley—and acting—is for me.”

It was my turn to grin. “If you think your mother has your life planned out for you, wait until you have an agent and a manager.” Which was nothing but the cold, hard truth. No one could live within spitting distance of Hollywood and not know that fact.

His voice lowered, as if he was overwhelmed that I wasn’t trying to talk him out of driving down from Berkeley for Hollywood casting calls. “So you think I’d be good enough to attract an agent?”

I thought so. I thought he’d be a big-screen superstar if he wanted to be. There was an unavoidable magnetism to him when he turned it on. But did I want to admit that? Sure, why not? “There are more smoking hot guys per square foot in the L.A. area than anywhere else. But I think you’d have a chance.”
Twenty seconds
.

“Thanks.” He looked genuinely pleased at my assessment that he fit right in with the smoking hot crowd, as if living in Beverly Hills made me an expert. At last, someone in Salem thought I knew something. Too bad he was mortal.

Ten seconds
. I held up the empty glass. “Would you like more?”

“Sure.” Just like last time, when he came to visit with his mom, I didn’t want to say good-bye.

I knew the clock was ticking and I
had
to go.
Now
. Or there would be some alarms going off, one worried mother popping in out of the blue, and some serious mind-wiping to be done. And still … I thought of a solution. “Come on in and I’ll add cookies.”

Oooh. The dimple appeared, making me feel like a genius for thinking to offer food. “I never turn down cookies.”

I hurried toward the house, counting down the seconds. “What’s your favorite kind of cookie?”

Angelo followed, a little behind, probably because he had no idea what would happen if we didn’t get into the living room—where I was almost positive the Dorklock would be playing video games—in just under five seconds. “What are your favorite?”

“Peanut butter with a Hershey’s Kiss center, but I’m an equal-opportunity cookie consumer,” he said, grinning.

I opened the door and let him into the house without a second to spare. The Dorklock was indeed busy with his
video games. For about five more seconds I held my breath, wondering if Mom had accounted for the presence of a little brother who didn’t give a toad croak what his big sister was doing. Happily, she had forgotten that little loophole, because, other than the bing-buzz-bang of the video game, there was only the sound of an old house creaking and settling.