The XYZs of Being Wicked

by Lara Chapman

  “Heather, honey,” she calls behind her. The most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen glides across the waxed hardwood floor. She’s older than me, but not by much. Probably two or three years. The brilliant blond hair draped over her shoulder is shinier than silk. If going to Dowling does this to a girl, I’m all in.

  “Yes, Miss A?” She smiles sweetly at my mom away from home.

  “Can you please show the Simons to Hallie’s room? She’s in 128.”

  “128? That’s my old room! You’re going to love it! You have the thermostat, so you get to control the temperature for the even-numbered rooms in your wing.”

  I smile and nod, not sure how that makes the room special. But if Heather says it’s good, who am I to argue?

  Her smile sparkles, and she places a delicate hand over her heart. “I’m Heather Ellis, a Crafter.” The word “crafter” is spoken with pride bordering on conceit.

  “Lead the way, m’lady,” Dad says, dipping into a deep bow to Heather. I roll my eyes, wishing I knew the spell to make myself invisible. Or make him mute.

  Miss A chuckles, her laugh deep and loud, more of a boisterous belly laugh than a witch’s cackle. I decide there’s something genuinely good about her, and my entire body exhales.

  Dad grabs both ends of the trunk, and we follow Heather down a wide hallway. The walls are a shiny dark wood that matches the floors. Between every door is a small, bare bulletin board with a handful of colorful tacks. We walk down the hallway, some doors open with girls inside, other doors closed, probably waiting for their new residents. The air vibrates with the buzz of nerves.

  Heather points to room 125 when we pass it. “That’s Miss A’s room.”

  I could have guessed that, since it’s the only room in the hallway with any sign of personality. Plastic butterflies and butterflies drawn on paper and butterflies cut from magazines are pinned to her bulletin board. There isn’t a fraction of a centimeter that isn’t covered. Hanging above her door are three wind chimes. All with butterflies on them.

  “Interesting,” Mom says, letting her hand softly tap the lowest wind chime as she walks by.

  My eyes focus on the iridescent wings of the wind chime’s butterflies. Wings that look like they’re moving, wings in flight. But just as quickly as the wings began moving, they return to their plastic, frozen-in-space position. I blink a few times, not sure what I’m seeing is real—it must be nerves.

  I half-run to catch up with my parents, happy to put some space between me and Miss A’s weird wind chimes.

  Heather stops in front of the last door on the left. “Here we are.”

  She points to the silver strip just above the handle. “Your ID has a magnetic stripe on it that you’ll slide here to unlock the door, just like a hotel key card.”

  I swipe the card through the metal strip. A green light flashes three times, and a soft click tells me the door’s unlocked.

  “You’re already a master.” Heather pats her dainty hand on my back before pushing the door open. I squint through my glasses into the black hole that is now my room.

  Heather giggles. “Go on in. It’s not a black hole. Promise.”

  At her echo of my own thoughts, I spin to look at her. Heather keeps the Tour-Guide-Barbie smile on her face. It’s a common phrase, right? She might use that phrase with everyone.

  Baby step after baby step, I draw farther into the dark room, unsure what to expect. Bunk beds? A mattress on the floor? Or will it be more like the prison cells I’ve seen on TV, with a bed of concrete and a metal toilet between the roommates’ beds?

  “I’m sorry, Hallie. Let me turn the light on for you.” With a snap of Heather’s pink-tipped fingers, fluorescent light floods the room, and I stop, dead still. Did she just snap the lights on?

  “So?” she asks. “What do you think?”

  In a room the size of a postage stamp, there’s a twin bed on either side of the room, covered in a fluffy black-and-white floral quilt. Each bed has two overstuffed pillows that beg to be slept on. There are two small desks between the beds for us to work on. Tall lamps with black lampshades, and an organizer with pens, pencils, and highlighters, stand at attention. A small dresser is on the wall at the end of the bed. The dresser would be the perfect spot for a television if they weren’t forbidden.

  It’s all very . . . surprising. In a good way.

  “What a room, Hal! My college dorm wasn’t nearly this nice!” Mom walks past me and sits on a bed, pushing on the springs, my duffel bag still on her shoulder. “It’s soft, just like your bed at home.”

  Home. The word alone is a little confusing now. Where exactly is my home?

  Heather takes a trunk handle and helps Dad haul the truck into the room. “Your mom picked the right bed for you. The other bed is directly under the air vent. Not good.”

  I smile at Heather, fascinated with her temperature-control obsession.

  “Let’s put the trunk here,” she says, walking to the foot of the bed. “You’ll need it for storage. Closet space is wretched.”

  Dad occupies himself with making sure the trunk is perfectly centered. Presentation is everything.

  Heather walks to the small hallway just inside the doorway. “Here’s the closet,” she says, pulling the sliding door open. “See what I mean? And remember, you have to share this with your roommate. Most girls put their uniforms in here and keep their other clothes in the dresser.”

  I peek inside the teeny tiny closet, more appropriate for holding a few coats than the wardrobes of two girls. She was right. It won’t even hold the minuscule wardrobe I brought with me.

  “This is your bathroom. You’ll share it with your roommate too. It’s smart to figure out early who’s going to take their shower first. Oh, and you’ll want to limit your showers. Otherwise the second person showering will have absolutely no hot water. It lasts ten minutes, tops.”

  “Thanks for the insider information,” Dad says, finally satisfied with the position of the trunk. “See, Hallie? I was right. Life is all about—”

  “Who you know,” I mutter, my face roasting.

  I thought telling my parents good-bye would be hard, but I think I’m ready to see them go.

  Heather giggles. “You’re funny,” she says to my dad in a way that coming from anyone else would sound like a Kendall-worthy insult.

  Looking at me, she points to an ancient corded phone hanging on the wall across from the closet. “You can use this phone to call people in the building, but it doesn’t dial out. You can call room to room by dialing the room number. I’m in room 205 on the second floor. Just give me a shout if you have a question and can’t find Miss A.”

  Dad whips a pad of sticky notes from his pocket and scribbles on it. He sticks the note next to the phone. “So you don’t forget Heather’s number,” he says, undeniably happy that his resourcefulness has once again saved the day.

  “You have plenty of time to walk around the main building before invocation. Take your map with you and just get a feel of the building. The older girls arrive a little before five.”

  “Those poor girls. They’ll never get unpacked before invocation,” Mom says.

  Heather shakes her head, bright smile shining. “You’d be surprised how quickly it goes.” She turns her attention back to me. “Feel free to roam around. We just ask that you stay on your floor.”

  I wasn’t planning on climbing the stairs uninvited, but now I’m curious. “Why?”

  Her smile slides into a grin. “It’s for your protection. You’ll understand soon.”

  I nod, realization settling in my bones like a lead weight. I’m really and truly going to live at a school for witches, a school full of scary secrets. Without my parents.

  Heather looks around the room, then closes the closet door. “I think that’s about it. Do you have any questions before I go?”

  I look at Mom, then Dad, both of them shaking their heads.

  “How do I call home?” I ask.

  Heather slaps he
r forehead. “Great question! I can’t believe I forgot to tell you.”

  I follow Heather to the door and look to where she points down the hall. “See that little hallway right next to Miss A’s room?”

  I lean forward to get a better look. “Sure,” I lie.

  “There’s a phone in that little hallway. They say there’s a five-minute limit, but no one really watches the clock.”

  My parents press against me, eyes following Heather’s pointed finger.

  She steps farther out the doorway. “If you don’t need me, I’ll leave you to unpack.”

  Mom beats Dad to the closing handshake. “Thank you, Heather,” she says with such gratitude, you’d think Heather had just pulled me from a burning building. “You’ve been so helpful.”

  Heather’s smile lights up the hallway. “It’s been my pleasure, Mrs. Simon. Nice to meet all of you.” She pulls her hand from Mom’s grasp, then begins walking down the hall. After a few steps she stops abruptly, turns around, and calls out, “See you at invocation, Hallie. Five o’clock sharp.”

  “Okay,” I call back with an awkward wave. And there’s a scared little part of me that wishes Heather would come back and teach me some do-or-die Dowling survival skills.

  Because without them, Dowling’s going to put me in the cauldron and turn me into next week’s stew.

  Three

  Mom stretches five minutes of unpacking into twenty. When she can’t find anything else to fluff, fix, or freshen, she stares and stares and stares at me, and I think I see the hint of tears in her eyes. Like she’ll never see me again.

  Dad squints at the alarm clock I’ve put on my desk. 3:32 p.m. “Well, kiddo, guess it’s time for us to hit the road.”

  He puts his arm around Mom’s shoulders and squeezes.

  I grab them for a quick group hug, then step back, terrified I’ll actually start crying. Mom visibly wills herself to be strong, to hold it together until she can get into the car. I look so much like her—same brown hair, same brown eyes, same brown glasses. I wonder if my expression, like hers, is paralyzing panic.

  “Maybe we should stay until your roommate gets here.” The desperation in her voice makes my heart cramp.

  I shake my head at her offer. “I’ll be fine.” I grab the map and schedule Mom neatly laid on my desk. “I’ve got a lot to look over.”

  Mom nods, pulls me in for one last hug. “I love you, sweetie.”

  Dad walks Mom to the door, practically dragging her like a stubborn dog on a leash. I give him a grateful smile. If they don’t leave in the next fifteen seconds, I’ll start a crying jag that will leave me blotchy, puffy, and stuffy. Definitely not how I intend to meet my roommate.

  I follow them to the hallway, now crowded with families being escorted by Heather-like students. “Stop worrying. I’m okay.”

  Dad puts his free hand on my shoulder, probably afraid to let go of Mom. “You’re the first Simon in five generations to attend Dowling. You have the opportunity to create a name for yourself. Make us proud.”

  “Make yourself proud,” Mom pipes in.

  They’re both right, of course. In the world of witchcraft only the strong succeed. I suspect Dad wishes he’d been born a girl, or at least been born with the ability to become a hedge witch like Great-great-grandmother Elsa. But our lineage is passed on woman to woman or man to man, so Dad’s ability to be a witch could never happen. Male witches descend from men and go to a different school. Despite the endless ways my dad embarrasses me, I love him. I want to make him—and myself—proud.

  Wordlessly they walk down the long hallway until they get to Miss A’s door. Dad stops, points to something next to her door, and I realize it’s the student phone. He pulls the receiver into the hallway and waves it at me. I give him a quick thumbs-up, walk into my room, shut the door, and cry.

  I’m washing my face when I hear the door unlock. I freeze, wanting to hide and check out my roommate before meeting her. But even I won’t do something so silly. This is a new me. A new beginning.

  I could be meeting my first real best friend.

  I fly to my bed and sit cross-legged with the map and schedule in front of me, as if I’ve been here all day. As if I don’t care who my roommate is. The door opens, and Heather enters the room.

  “Your roommate’s here!”

  I peer around Heather, but all I can see is a large framed picture in front of my roommate. Guess she took that whole “decorations allowed” thing pretty seriously. I look at the two throw pillows on my bed and the pair of framed pictures on my dresser and instantly wish I’d brought more.

  My roommate walks inside and lowers the frame to the floor, and every cell in my body freezes when our eyes lock.

  No. Freaking. Way.

  I know that flawless face, that not-quite-smiling mouth, that perfectly highlighted blond hair.

  Even in the same outfit I’m wearing and without makeup, she looks superior.

  She breathes deeply, evil eyes glaring. If she’s as stunned as me, she’s hiding it perfectly. “Hallie.”

  I don’t give in to my usual habit of looking away, and instead stare straight into her ice-blue judgmental eyes. “Kendall,” I say, mimicking her I’m-too-good-for-you tone.

  “Wait,” Heather says, looking back and forth between us. “You two actually know each other?”

  Kendall rolls her eyes. “Only forever.”

  “How lucky is that?” Heather says. “You can help each other learn the Dowling ropes!”

  “So lucky,” Kendall says, sarcasm dripping from her lips. It’s the same tone she’s used with me for years.

  “This might be a first in Dowling history. I’ve never heard of roommates who knew each other before coming here.”

  I keep my face smiling despite every fight-or-flight instinct screaming at me to run. Run away from Dowling. Run away from Kendall. Run away from my karama. Suddenly, starting over seems like a really bad idea.

  Some girls are destined to inherit family fortunes. Me? I get to be part of centuries-old witchcraft practices and room with my only enemy.

  We were best friends until third grade, when I got glasses and Kendall decided cool kids didn’t. She took all our friends with her, and I’ve basically been a loner since then. Kendall, however, continued her rapid rise on the popularity ladder, never once looking back at me and our friendship.

  Kendall’s parents hustle into the room, laboring with a bulky trunk and overstuffed duffel bag. The last time I was at the Scott house, three years ago, Mom had to pick me up at two in the morning after Kendall and her cronies locked me in a dark closet until I begged to go home.

  “Whew,” Mrs. Scott says, releasing the trunk and putting a hand to her back. “That’s one heck of a long hallway!”

  Dad’s voice echoes in my head. Kill them with kindness.

  “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Scott,” I say, standing to extend my hand for a firm handshake.

  Dad would be so proud.

  Mr. Scott is the first to speak, looking down at me over his glasses with cold eyes before shaking my hand. “Hallie. So good to see you again.” His words are nice enough, but he says them with the gravity usually reserved for devastating life-changing events. Like dropping-your-cell-phone-in-the-toilet kind of devastating.

  Kendall’s mom walks a few steps closer, then realizes she knows me. The color fades from her face, and she stammers with a series of uhs, ums, and huhs. It’d be funny if I wasn’t feeling the same way.

  I cram the mounting hysteria way down deep inside me. There’s no way I’m letting Kendall see how rattled I am.

  I silently thank my parents for making sure we were here early. Saying good-bye to my parents in front of Kendall would have been more embarrassing than the time I puked in gym after losing the one-mile race. To Kendall.

  Obviously sensing the tension, Heather’s once sunshiny smile is forced, her eyes too wide. She races Kendall and her parents through a tour of the room. I’m secretly satisfied when she doesn�
�t share the helpful hints about the shower and phone.

  “Parents have to be gone by four o’clock sharp,” she says apologetically. Like it’s her fault they showed up right at the last possible minute. That’s exactly how Kendall used to show up for class, sliding in just as the bell rang. Every class. Every day. I always wondered what she did between classes that made her so late.

  “Invocation’s at five. Don’t be late. Headmistress Fallon detests tardiness.”

  Punctuality is totally my thing. Kendall? Not so much. “No problem. Can you tell me where it is?” I ask.

  “Go back to the lobby, then follow the crowd of girls to the Gathering Circle. Can’t miss it.”

  Heather waves and walks out, the door closing behind her automatically. I try to remember if that happened the last time she left, but I specifically remember having to push the door closed. Is that the way things are here? Doors open and close without assistance? That could totally come in handy.

  “Can I help you get unpacked?” I ask, more out of polite habit than generosity.

  Kendall doesn’t look at me, speak to me, or acknowledge me in any way. She’s quite the expert at that irritating little skill.

  I lie back on my supercomfy bed to read the map and schedule. Again. I’m determined to memorize it so I don’t constantly look lost.

  I sneak quick glances at Kendall unpacking. She carefully places familiar lime-green throw pillows on her bed. I giggle on the inside. Kendall will be horrified when she realizes we brought identical decorations.

  Her mom unpacks the trunk, putting clothes in the dresser and cramming the closet. Guess I won’t be hanging my uniforms.

  Her dad centers the large frame on the wall above her dresser. From where I’m lying, I can perfectly see the collage of at least a hundred pictures of Kendall and her friends, a.k.a. my tormenters, in identical pouty poses in different places. The movie theater. The mall. The classroom . . . where phones aren’t even allowed! Instead of escaping my enemies, I’ll have to see them every single day.