Connie speaks.
“How do you know him?”
“I don’t,” I say. “He’s a stranger.”
“A hot one.”
“He could be crazy. I think he’s a stalker.”
“Again, a hot one.” She pauses. I shrug. “And you like him,” she says in my ear.
I shake my head and swat her away. It must be a rule that little sisters have to be irritating. “No. I don’t even know him, Con.”
She does this little huff like she doesn’t believe me. I stick my tongue out at her because I’m mature like that.
Gran calls my name as soon as we walk through the door. Connie squeezes my hand and runs off so I can face the firing squad alone. Traitor. In the kitchen, Gran is bent over the oven. It smells like spaghetti pizza, which she only makes on special occasions. The smell of the melting cheese and pepperoni makes my stomach growl.
“Did you need something? I wanted to shower. That smells good,” I say. Deflection!
Gran closes the oven door and faces me. “Did you have a good run?” She doesn’t buy the trick. She’s a retired high school teacher; not much gets past her.
Sure, until the Enforcers and a stalker-boy showed up. I nod in quiet reply.
“I’m thinking I’ll make something special for dessert. I made this chocolate angel pie when your mom was your age. How about that?”
This is Gran’s way of apologizing. She’s not the “let’s hug it out” type. She’s not even the “I’ll admit I was wrong” type. A special dessert plus a fancy dinner? She’s that type.
“Sounds delicious,” I say. She starts rummaging through one of her cookbooks. I grab my phone off the table where I left it and see all of Ric’s frantic texts about leaving in the middle of a conversation and asking where I’d been. His last says he called Con. Want to come to dinner? I text.
Don’t lie to me, darlin’. I will cut you.
I’d like to see you try.
He sends me back an emoji of a knife, and I laugh.
“Can Ric come over? His mom is working late.” Gran’s turning pages in her book, and since this is my apology dinner, I already know she’ll say yes. I send the text before she even answers.
“I reckon. Tell him an hour,” she says. The buzzer on the stove goes off and Gran is in action again so I head upstairs. Connie stops me before I turn into my room.
“I made you this,” she says. She hands me a little box. Connie’s not really a “make things” kind of girl. Buy them, yes. Make them, no.
“It won’t bite me, will it?” I ask. She crosses her arms and I pull off the lid. Inside is a necklace. It’s a glass vial filled with salt strung on a chain.
“It’s so you won’t forget salt again,” she says. “Practical and cute.”
“Thoughtful,” I smile.
“I’m sorry, Penelope,” Connie says. “I know how much you wanted this.”
I know she means the Enforcer exams. “It’s okay. I have a new plan.” I’d come up with it while running. Running’s good for thinking.
Connie straightens. “Tell me.”
“There’s an office right above the training room that will put you close enough for me to use your magic,” I say. Based on all my research and interviews with other people who took the tests over the last few years so I could prepare myself for it, the magical ones happen there, too. No matter which direction I move, it will be within our limits. I’ll be able to pass.
“They won’t think it’s weird that I’m up there?” she asks.
“I thought of that. It’s the Reporting Unit.” The Reporting Unit is where other witches can go to report demon sightings, strange behavior by other members of the community, and Nons who might have seen them do magic. “You remember the time in middle school when Shira Plum thought that Non kid saw her use magic in the bathroom at Chuck E. Cheese’s?”
Connie nods. “Yeah, but it turned out the kid was just staring at the pizza stain on her jeans.”
I laugh. She made a big deal about how much trouble she’d be in when they found out
“How do you know him?”
“I don’t,” I say. “He’s a stranger.”
“A hot one.”
“He could be crazy. I think he’s a stalker.”
“Again, a hot one.” She pauses. I shrug. “And you like him,” she says in my ear.
I shake my head and swat her away. It must be a rule that little sisters have to be irritating. “No. I don’t even know him, Con.”
She does this little huff like she doesn’t believe me. I stick my tongue out at her because I’m mature like that.
Gran calls my name as soon as we walk through the door. Connie squeezes my hand and runs off so I can face the firing squad alone. Traitor. In the kitchen, Gran is bent over the oven. It smells like spaghetti pizza, which she only makes on special occasions. The smell of the melting cheese and pepperoni makes my stomach growl.
“Did you need something? I wanted to shower. That smells good,” I say. Deflection!
Gran closes the oven door and faces me. “Did you have a good run?” She doesn’t buy the trick. She’s a retired high school teacher; not much gets past her.
Sure, until the Enforcers and a stalker-boy showed up. I nod in quiet reply.
“I’m thinking I’ll make something special for dessert. I made this chocolate angel pie when your mom was your age. How about that?”
This is Gran’s way of apologizing. She’s not the “let’s hug it out” type. She’s not even the “I’ll admit I was wrong” type. A special dessert plus a fancy dinner? She’s that type.
“Sounds delicious,” I say. She starts rummaging through one of her cookbooks. I grab my phone off the table where I left it and see all of Ric’s frantic texts about leaving in the middle of a conversation and asking where I’d been. His last says he called Con. Want to come to dinner? I text.
Don’t lie to me, darlin’. I will cut you.
I’d like to see you try.
He sends me back an emoji of a knife, and I laugh.
“Can Ric come over? His mom is working late.” Gran’s turning pages in her book, and since this is my apology dinner, I already know she’ll say yes. I send the text before she even answers.
“I reckon. Tell him an hour,” she says. The buzzer on the stove goes off and Gran is in action again so I head upstairs. Connie stops me before I turn into my room.
“I made you this,” she says. She hands me a little box. Connie’s not really a “make things” kind of girl. Buy them, yes. Make them, no.
“It won’t bite me, will it?” I ask. She crosses her arms and I pull off the lid. Inside is a necklace. It’s a glass vial filled with salt strung on a chain.
“It’s so you won’t forget salt again,” she says. “Practical and cute.”
“Thoughtful,” I smile.
“I’m sorry, Penelope,” Connie says. “I know how much you wanted this.”
I know she means the Enforcer exams. “It’s okay. I have a new plan.” I’d come up with it while running. Running’s good for thinking.
Connie straightens. “Tell me.”
“There’s an office right above the training room that will put you close enough for me to use your magic,” I say. Based on all my research and interviews with other people who took the tests over the last few years so I could prepare myself for it, the magical ones happen there, too. No matter which direction I move, it will be within our limits. I’ll be able to pass.
“They won’t think it’s weird that I’m up there?” she asks.
“I thought of that. It’s the Reporting Unit.” The Reporting Unit is where other witches can go to report demon sightings, strange behavior by other members of the community, and Nons who might have seen them do magic. “You remember the time in middle school when Shira Plum thought that Non kid saw her use magic in the bathroom at Chuck E. Cheese’s?”
Connie nods. “Yeah, but it turned out the kid was just staring at the pizza stain on her jeans.”
I laugh. She made a big deal about how much trouble she’d be in when they found out
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