Parties & Potions #4 (4 page)

The Freshman Fiasco

“I love your new shirt,” my BFF, Tammy, tells me as we walk into the JFK auditorium for the welcome assembly. “When did you get it?”

“Hello! Last week. I was with you!”

Her face squishes with confusion. “That’s not the shirt you bought with me. That one was red. Yours is blue.”

Whoops. “Oh, yeah, I, uh, forgot. I exchanged it for another color.”

“I like it,” she says.

“Are you sure? ’Cause it looked pretty funky in white, too. And red. And gold.”

“Too late now.”

Or not. I could always slip into the bathroom before the bell. Although Tammy might worry she was having some sort of color-activated stroke.

The second we enter the auditorium, my Raf-radar goes on. Where is he? Where is that Shmoopie? Shmoopoo? Poo poo?

Tee hee, I said “poo.”

Must get a grip! I have to act mature now that I have a boyfriend.

How I love to say that. A boyfriend. Or as they say in French, which, according to my schedule, I have second period,
mon amour.
My love. Are you supposed to tell your boyfriend you love him after only a month? Or should you wait for him to say it first? I wish there were a high school boyfriend manual I could check. I bet that would be covered in chapter one.

Is that him? Nope. There? Nope. Wait, there he is, there he is! He’s sitting in the right-hand corner of the auditorium with a group of his friends.

Yes!

Why doesn’t he look up? Shouldn’t he have Rachel-radar? I should zap up a spell for that. Meanwhile, should I go up to him? Is that stalkerish? I mean, we’ve seen each other practically every day since camp ended. But does that mean we’re supposed to sit side by side for orientation? Do boyfriends and girlfriends have to sit together?

That would be covered in chapter two.

What do I do, what do I do? Sit with him or no? I look down at my shoes. I look up at the ceiling. Hello, halogen lights. I look back down. My neck hurts. What if the transition from summer boyfriend to school boyfriend is too weird for him? I’ve seen
Grease.
I don’t want to have to ask him what happened to the Danny Zuko I met at the beach. Not that I met Raf at the beach.

A Pink Ladies jacket would be cool, though.

“There’s Raf,” Tammy says, opening her hand and pointing, which is the scuba signal for “let’s go that way” Tammy learned to scuba dive last year and occasionally likes to communicate by underwater mime. I don’t mind. If I ever fell into the ocean, at least I’d know how to tell people I was drowning.

“Really?” I say, feigning ignorance. “Where?”

“You’re such a liar. You spotted him the second you walked in.”

I laugh. She totally knows me. Except for the witch part. “Should we go over? I don’t want to be a stalker.”

“He’s your
boyfriend.
You can’t stalk your boyfriend. I’m sure he wants to sit with you.”

Tammy has a very mature outlook on boyfriends, mostly because hers, Bosh, is very mature. He’s a college freshman. He’s off at Penn, but they talk and text like ten times a day.

Tammy is pretty mature about everything. Not much fazes her. Her relationships. Her friendships. Her two step-moms. Yup, she has two. Her dad is remarried, and her mom is remarried—to another woman. And they all get along. They went on a joint vacation over the summer. A cruise. How crazy is that? My parents would never go on a joint summer vacation. I mean, they did when they were married, obviously, but they wouldn’t now.

We used to drive to Stowe for the weekend to go skiing. Those car rides were insanely long, but fun in a singing-along-to-Broadway-show-tunes-and-playing-geography kind of way.

And then we would all share a hotel room, and we’d laugh at my dad ’cause he slept with socks on.

Imagine the four of us—no, make that seven (the four of us plus Lex, my mom’s boyfriend; Prissy, my stepsister; and my pregnant stepmom)—going on a cruise together now. Not. I can’t even picture the seven and a half of us being in the same room for more than four and a half seconds. Never mind a week on a boat.

Raf looks up at me and smiles.

Swoon.

I could definitely imagine spending a week on a cruise ship with Raf. I could imagine spending a week in a canoe with Raf.

Yay! He’s wearing the brown shirt! The one we bought together! He must want me to think he looks hot. And he does. That smile! Those eyes! Those lips!

Seriously, he has great lips. Soft and sweet and perfect. He’s the best kisser in the entire universe. Not that I’ve kissed that many other guys. Only one. Raf’s brother. During the whole magic-love-spell-fiasco thingy But anyway. Raf is an amazing kisser, even though he’s younger than Will and has had less experience.

The only other person he’s ever kissed is Melissa Davis.

I grimace. Speak of the devil. I spot her flaming-red hair only a few rows away from Raf. I should totally put a border spell on her so she can’t get within twenty feet of him.

She is sitting with my Ex-Bee-Bee (Ex Best Bud), Jewel. Jewel, who dumped me last year and replaced me with Melissa.

Melissa’s giving me dirty looks. Rolled-in-mud-and-sautéed-in-garbage dirty looks.

She turns around and says something to the group of girls sitting in front of her. A group of seniors. I recognize Cassandra Morganstein from last year’s fashion show— really a dance show with a catwalk and designer outfits. Last year I used Miri’s magic to give myself mad dancing skills and get a part. Unfortunately, I kind of ruined the show when I tripped and decapitated the Eiffel Tower. It’s a long story. On the plus side, that’s where Raf and I got to know each other. Anyway, two seniors run it every year, and this year Cassandra is one of them. Cassandra has this insanely curly blond hair. It’s gorgeous from afar, but terrifying up close: she sculpts it with so much product each curl looks like a spiral weapon. I try to avoid her in the hallway so I won’t lose an eye. Today she’s wearing all red—red top, red jeans, red boots—apparently adopting the trademarked mono-color look of London Zeal, the awful head of last year’s ruined fashion show. Thank God
she
graduated in June.

Tammy notices too. “Look at Cassandra,” she says. “Guess she’s declaring herself top dog.”

Top dog, female dog, top …

Well, you know.

I keep my head down. This year I am going to stay out of the fashion show people’s way. They are all very attractive, extremely intimidating meanies. All except Raf. He’s just very attractive. Maybe he won’t want to be in the show this year.

As we make our way through the auditorium, I feel like I’m being watched. Or maybe that’s my big head talking. I wonder if having an actual big head correlates in any way to having a big ego. Worth a scientific study, maybe. I’ll suggest it in chemistry, which I have right after lunch. Is it weird that I’m excited about taking chemistry? It sounds kind of exciting. You know, bubbling potions and exploding test tubes and all that.

I breathe deeply and take a moment to pump myself up. You are fabulous! You look fabulous! Your new shirt is amazing! You have Raf! You have Tammy! Life is good.

Twenty feet until I reach Raf. Fifteen feet. Ten feet! Now what am I supposed to do? Should I kiss him hello? On the lips? On the cheek? Things to be covered in chapter three!

In preparation, I reach into my bag and oh-so-subtly dab on my cherry lip gloss. Yum.

Five feet.

But what if I try to kiss him hello and he isn’t expecting it and then I end up kissing the air and everyone laughs? Or what if he doesn’t want to kiss me in front of his friends? What if I kiss him and he’s horrified and then he hates me and then breaks up with me tonight on the phone? Or right now? Oh God, what if he breaks up with me right here in the auditorium? And Melissa laughs and laughs and then I have to run out of the room because large tears are rolling down my face and snot is coming out of my nose and I run from the room but I can barely see so I trip and then the room is silent and then I have to kill myself? What then?

One foot.

Here he is. And …

Raf kisses me. On the lips.

Not a hard-core kiss, but a kiss. A hard-core tongue kiss would be inappropriate in these circumstances. I don’t need a handbook to know that. Anyway, his kiss announces to everyone that I am his girlfriend.

“Hi,” he says, post-lip action. “You look great.”

I. Look. Great. Blue was the right choice.

“Thanks,” I say, sitting beside him. “You too.”

He winks. “I wore the shirt just for you.”

How perfect is he? So perfect!

I wonder if we get to kiss hello every time we meet. Let’s see. That means at least one kiss a day every morning. Plus whenever we bump into each other in the hallway. Plus at lunch. So say, five times a day? Are we going to kiss hello five times a day? Wait, we’d kiss hello and good-bye. Not just hello. That’s what couples do, right? If we stay together for all of high school, that’s three more years. So say ten months of school over three years is thirty months, twenty days a month, which is six thousand kisses. Plus say at least two kisses per weekend, totals six thousand two hundred and forty kisses! And I still haven’t factored in summers. And extra kisses for birthdays (three days till mine, wahoo!), Valentine’s Day, and anniversaries.

That’s a lot of kisses. I’m going to need more lip gloss.

Tammy is in advanced math too. I make up crazy formulas for her when she’s bored. She’s going to love this one.

“Rachel!”

I look up at the sound of someone calling my name. But I can’t tell where it’s coming from.

“Rachel!” I hear again. “Rachel Weinstein!”

Oh no.

Oh no.

Oh no, oh no, oh please no.

Wendaline is in the center of the auditorium, waving at me. She’s wearing her outfit from yesterday. Black tights. Black kimono. Black hat. Omigod.

“What, is it Halloween?” someone hisses. I turn around to see who. Cassandra. Terrific.

What is Wendaline doing? Is she insane? Is she trying to be ironic? Is she trying to ruin me?

“Who is that?” Raf asks.

“I’ll be right back,” I mutter, my cheeks aflame. I hurry over, grab her by the arm, and am about to pull her outside when Mrs. Konch, the principal, taps her microphone.

“Can everyone please sit down?”

What do I do? Should I zap her into a new outfit? No. People will see. And what if her clothing is enchanted or something? And then it explodes?

I pull her hat off, hand it to her, and whisper, “Put this in your schoolbag and do not take it out. Do you understand? Do
not
take it out.” I’m tempted to make her sit by herself so no one will associate her with me, but unlike the fashion show people, I am not that mean.

“Wait, but … do I have hat hair?” She shakes out her long locks.

That’s what she’s worried about? Exasperated, I lead my startled new friend toward my group.

“Sit,” I instruct.

She does. I do not look at her. How does she not know that her clothing is completely unacceptable? How is that possible? And while I thought her charcoal-lined eyes looked nice yesterday, today they just look … wrong.

Cassandra and company are snickering behind us. I’d turn around to glare at her, but I don’t want to garner any extra attention.

“Hey, you,” Cassandra jeers. “Girl in the black robe!”

Wendaline turns around. “Me?”

Oh great.

“Yeah. Where did you buy your outfit?” she asks. Her voice is syrupy sweet. “It’s really something else.”

“Thank you!” Wendaline chirps.

Cassandra licks her lips. “Are you going to a costume party?”

Wendaline looks confused. “No. Why?”

“Because you look like a witch.”

“Well, that’s because”—as Wendaline’s voice carries, my heart sinks—“I
am
a witch.”

The Fixer-Upper

She did not just say that.
She did not just say that!
She did not just tell the entire school she’s a witch.

Maybe I imagined it.

Yes. I must have imagined it. My witchy brain is playing witchy tricks on me.

“Excuse me?” Cassandra asks, voice thick with repugnance.

“I said, I’m a witch. It’s nice to meet you.” She sticks out her hand. “I’m Wendaline. I’m new. I’m a freshman.”

Cassandra just stares. She’s obviously not sure if she’s dealing with a freak or if she’s being put on. “Whatever.” She flicks a hard curl off her shoulder and turns away.

Her friends snicker.

This is not good. Not good at all. Wendaline just antagonized the new leader of the A-list. I’ve already experienced being hated by the leader of the A-list. It sucks.

Mrs. Konch walks across the stage. I sink into my seat and count the seconds until the assembly is over.

Throughout the welcome-back/greet-the-new-bio-teacher/ please-keep-cows-out-of-the-refurbished-gym-this-year speech, my shoulders are so tense, they’re practically in my ears. The second we’re told to proceed to our respective homerooms, I mumble to Tammy and Raf that I’ll see them later, and push Wendaline back in her seat.

I take a deep breath. “Please explain to me, why are you wearing what you’re wearing?”

“What? The cloak?”

“Yes! The cloak! The witch cloak! To school! This isn’t Hogwarts! It’s JFK High! In New York City! Why are you wearing it?”

Her doe eyes are wide with bewilderment. “Because … because … Miri said it looked good!”

“Miri? My sister?”

“Yeah!”

My whole body shudders. “Never take fashion advice from my sister. Ever. And can you tell me why you thought you could wear the hat?”

She hugs her schoolbag. “I was having a bad hair day.”

The homeroom bell rings and I shake my head. This girl is completely infuriating. “More importantly, why would you tell Cassandra what you told her?” I don’t even want to say the word aloud. Not here. Too risky.

“What are you talking about?”

This girl needs a serious talking-to. “We have to get to class. Come find me at lunch, okay? I’ll explain everything.”

“Sure. Thanks, Rachel.”

“No problem,” I say magnanimously. “In the meantime, don’t tell
anyone
else that you’re”—I lower my voice—“a witch.”

“But—”

“No buts. Oh, and you definitely need to change!” I hold on to her until we’re the only ones left in the auditorium, focus on her, and chant:

A rush of cold and … zap! I know I’m messing with the rules of magic, but there’s no other choice. All I can hope is that the dress she gets is off a hanger and not off some poor girl who’s now wearing nothing but underwear.

The cloak morphs into a long black shirtdress. She looks great! She still has on her leggings, but her top has short bubble sleeves and a scooped neck. “You look great!”

“But, but—”

“What did I say about buts? We’re going to be late!” I grab her arm and pull her through the swinging doors, down the now empty hallway, and up the stairs. “You’re in there,” I say, pointing to room 303. “I know it makes no sense that it’s on the second floor, but that’s JFK for you! I’ll see you at lunch!”

“But, Rachel—”

“No buts!” I wave and hurry up the next flight of stairs, rush through the hall, and burst into my new room and the empty chair beside Tammy just before the second bell rings.

Phewf!

“Hey,” Tammy says, eyeing me up and down. “Did you change?”

I look down. I’m wearing Wendaline’s cloak over my jeans. Except in blue.

I sigh. At least I’m not in my underwear.

“Can I steal a fry?” Tammy asks me. It’s eleven a.m., which, unfortunately for freshmen and sophomores, means lunch period. What normal people eat lunch at eleven? The school should at least call it brunch period. Tammy and I are sitting in the caf with the very serious Janice Cooper, the very chirpy Sherry Dolan, and the very big-breasted Annie Banks. Seriously, they’re huge. They’re like massive water-melons. And I’m massively jealous. Anyway, the five of us have been kind of a clique since last year. But not a mean clique. No way. We’re nice, we’re smart, and we’re B-list and proud.

Although I’m kind of A-list—A-minus maybe—now that Raf and I are going out. ’Cause he’s A-list. When you date an A-list boy, some of it automatically rubs off on you. Not that I care about stuff like that.

All right, I kind of do. But only a little.

“Have as many as you like,” I say, pushing my plate toward her. “I’ll warn you: they’re not great. Kind of soggy.”

I carefully pat my outfit to make sure it’s still there. After homeroom, I managed to turn my cloak into a more appropriate minidress. Whoever ended up with the cloak isn’t going to be happy (and will probably be seriously confused) but whatev. I had to do
something.

“Do you need more ketchup?” asks a new voice.

Everyone at the table jumps. The voice belongs to Wendaline, who was not sitting at the table two seconds ago. But now is.

Is this chick trying to give me a heart attack?

“Holy crapola!” Sherry squeals. “Where did you come from? You just scared the heck
ie
out of me!” Sherry loves the sound of
ee.
She tends to use it often in conversation, even adding it to words where it doesn’t belong. Kind of like pig Latin but less creative. I wouldn’t be surprised if her name was originally
Cher
and she changed it to Sherry just to be annoying.

Tammy coughs and grabs her apple Snapple. “I think I swallowed a fry!”

This has got to stop. “Wendaline, can I talk to you for a second in private?”

“Sure,” she says. “Where do you wanna go? Somewhere good? In the city? How private? I can poof us over to—”

Oh! My! God! “Wendaline.
No.
Let’s just go to the other side of the cafeteria for a sec, ’kay?” I nod toward the window.

She follows my lead. “What’s up?”

I angrily place my hands on my hips. “What are you trying to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Dressing like that! Telling people you’re a witch! Zapping yourself into the cafeteria! You can’t do that kind of stuff in school!”

“Why not?”

Why? Why me? “Because! You don’t want everyone to know you’re a witch!”

She blinks. And blinks again.
No comprendo.
“But I
am
a witch.”

“So am I,” I say, enunciating. “But that doesn’t mean I want to broadcast it to the entire world.”

“Why not?”

“What do you mean ‘why not’?”

“Well, why not?”

“Because … because … because …” Excellent question. Why not? “Because then everyone will know!”

She throws her arms into the air. “So?”

“So!” I feel like we’re just repeating each other here.

“Why shouldn’t everyone know?” she asks. “I
am
a witch.”

“I know. I get it. But see, they don’t. They’ve never heard of witches before.”

“How is that possible?” she asks. “There are hundreds of TV shows and movies and books about witches! We’re all over the media! You have to be pretty isolated to have never heard of a witch.”

“Wendaline, just because they’ve watched
Wizards of Waverly Place
doesn’t mean they
believe
in witchcraft. You’ve seen
A Christmas Carol.
Does that mean you believe in ghosts?”

She looks shocked. “You’ve never met a ghost?”

Is there a wall nearby? So I can bang my head against it? “Wendaline, before my sister got her powers, I did not know that witches were real. I had never met a real witch before.”

She looks dubious. “Never? What about at the Hexaton?”

“The what?”

“You’ve never been to the Hexaton?”

“I’ve never even heard of the Hexaton.”

“You’re kidding. I have to take you! It’s so much fun. All the old society witches have tea there. I’ve been going since I was six!”

“I didn’t know I was a witch when I was six.”

“Well, neither did I, but I still went. I mean, I knew I was going to be a witch. Didn’t you?”

“No! I had no idea! I didn’t know about Hexaton! I didn’t know about Brixta! I didn’t know about moguls! Or mogis. Whatever. That’s what I’m trying to explain! My mom never told us anything about magic. I was clueless! The same as everyone here. If you tell them you’re a witch, they’re going to think you’re a freak. Do you understand? A freak.”

She looks around the room, then sighs. “Well, maybe I don’t care what they think. I’m not going to hide who I am.”

Something is seriously wrong with her. “Don’t you want to have friends?”

“Of course.”

“Well, you’re not going to if people here know you’re a witch.”

“But why?” she asks, clearly exasperated.

“Because they’d either think you’re insane and lock you in the nuthouse, or if they actually believed you, they would lock you up so they could study you! Dissect you, even! Or they’d lock you up because they were terrified of you!”

“That’s silly. Why would they be afraid of me? I would never use my magic to hurt anyone. I’m a white witch.”

Gray? White? Why is she so obsessed with color? “What does that even mean?”

“I use my magic for good. Or try to, anyway.”

“Look, you can do what you want. It’s your life.” Or funeral. “But don’t tell anyone the truth about me. No one here knows, and I like it that way.” I glance back at my table and notice that they’re all watching us, trying to figure out what’s going on. “And I’d really appreciate it if you wouldn’t tell my friends you’re a witch either. Because if—and it’s a big if—they believe you, then they might get suspicious about me. Got it?”

“Whatever you say. You’re the expert. But I have to tell you, it’s a little weird.”

It’s a little weird?

Talk about the pot calling the cauldron black.

After an exhausting first day, all I want to do is fall onto my bed. Unfortunately, Miri is lying on said bed,
my
bed, her legs against the wall in a perpendicular position. This is how she thinks.