I decide that if I am stuck in detention, I might as well do something useful, so I pull out my math homework and try to focus on it. I really, really try, but it makes very little sense to me. I think sleep deprivation has affected my ability to understand math. Not that I was ever a math genius, but I’ve kind of always secretly liked it. I’ve always liked how it actually makes sense, unlike so many other things in life. If you understand a principle or how a certain rule is applied, you can get predictable results. But, apparently, not today, because no matter how I apply this particular principle, I keep getting different results and none of them make any sense at all.
The shouts outside grow louder and the two students who are staring out the window crane their necks to get a better look at what is going on out there. Even Ms. Johanssen takes a moment away from her book—and necklace biting—to get a peek outside. The noise definitely isn’t helping my concentration, so I pull out my earbuds, connect them to my phone, and bring up a playlist of Celtic folk rock. The music gives my brain a nice boost and I’m able to come up with a solution to my math problem that doesn’t entirely suck, at least on first glance. I continue cracking math problems, feeling productive and kind of proud of myself. I even start thinking that this detention thing isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. And of course I jinx it.
I pluck my earbuds out and gape in amazement. Ms. Johanssen and the two students watch with shocked expressions on their faces. The only person who doesn’t seem to care about what’s going on around her is the girl reading a book. She must have Rory Gilmore superpowers, because I don’t see how else she could ignore half of the football team swaggering into the classroom.
I count eighteen heads in total and all of them look like they have been pummeling each other for the better portion of their football practice. There are grass stains, dirt, and other dubious smudges on their clothing, and they all show evident signs of physical violence: several black eyes, split lips, and bruises in the most unexpected places, such as on someone’s earlobe. Or is that a bite? I shudder and try to shake that image out of my head. Chloe’s crush, Derek, is sporting a black eye and a large bruise on his forehead, although it’s not as strikingly visible on his dark brown skin as it would be on the guy standing next to him, who is as pale as a vampire. Well, half of his face is pale, the other half is purple. Yikes. That must have hurt. What the hell are they doing here? They all look like they belong in an emergency room, not in detention.
Ms. Johanssen stares at them wide-eyed and open-mouthed. She stops biting at her necklace and holds it just a few inches from her lips. Her eyes dart between her e-reader and the big sweaty football players, and I wonder if she’s been reading that kind of book.
Once all the guys are inside, Coach Dancy appears in the doorway. I’ve never seen such a contemptuous expression on his face before—and Coach Dancy is a master of contemptuous expressions.
“Stanley, what’s going on?” Ms. Johanssen’s voice trembles slightly. I suppose she doesn’t mind overseeing a few unruly students, but half of a football team? My voice would be trembling, too.
“Don’t get me started on this, Abby,” Coach spits on the floor. Ms. Johanssen’s left eye twitches. Coach Dancy’s lips twist into the most disdainful curl ever. “Those louts!” The coach shakes his head and spits again—which leads to another twitch of Ms. Johanssen’s eye—followed by a string of profanities that make Ms. Johanssen’s cheeks turn the color of ripe radishes. In between the profanities, there is something about a brawl, fighting, team spirit—or absence of team spirit? I can’t really tell—and the game on Thursday. There’s supposed to be a very important game on Thursday and we are going to lose it because we are big, bull-headed idiots who need to think about our behavior, and that’s why we are here. I think I get the gist of the spiel—and a few new phrases for my vocabulary.
Ms. Johanssen stares at the coach, trying to get a word in edgewise and failing miserably. In the end, she merely nods and watches as he turns on his heel, throws another disdainful look at his players over his shoulder, and walks away. To their credit, the guys are absolutely quiet throughout the entire speech—and they must have heard lots of speeches like that before—but as soon as Coach’s footsteps fade in the distance, a ruckus ensues.
“Now, now,” Ms. Johanssen tries to cut into the din, “we still have forty-five minutes of detention left.” She points to a large clock above her head. There is a second of silence while everyone stares at the clock, and then the noise resumes. Ms. Johanssen sighs heavily, but then apparently decides she’s done all in her power and goes back to reading her book.
If you don’t know what kind of noise eighteen football players can make in a tiny room, let me assure you it’s a lot of noise. Somewhere in the range of 400,000 decibels, which is comparable to that of 675 chainsaws or 525 power drills. Okay, I’m making that up, but this amount of noise definitely isn’t conducive to solving algebraic equations.
I place my earbuds back in my ears and focus on the Celtic rock. I find the music so much more relaxing. Until my earbuds are yanked out of my ears.
“You have a mistake here. You added variables with different exponents.” A familiar voice says and grass stained fingers point at one of my previously solved equations, leaving a smudge of dirt on the page.
“No.” I say without looking up.
“No as in you don’t have a mistake?” A mocking voice continues taunting me. “Because you do.”
“No as in you’re not here. Therefore, if there are any mistakes with my math problems, I’m not aware of them.”
“Oh, but I am here, Munchkin. And you do have a mistake.”
I finally make myself look up at Parker. His face is adorned with a grin that the Cheshire Cat would die for. He is also sporting two new bruises, one on his forehead and another one on his lip, which isn’t exactly split but is swelling by the second. He needs some ice on it right away. I cringe as I imagine how painful it must be. I try to shake that feeling off. I so do not care what happens to his lip.
“No,” I say stubbornly, and go back to my last math problem. But now that he’s pointed the mistake out, it’s staring right at me, beckoning me to fix it. Finally, I give up and fix the equation so that all the variables and their exponents are in their rightful places. “There, happy?” I give him an angry look like it’s all his fault that I made the mistake in the first place.
“Now why would something like that make me happy, Munchkin?” Oh, but it so does. “And you lost an exponent here.” He points at another problem. Dammit, he’s right again. I fight with myself over whether I should just leave it like it is, but then decide that it’s not the equation’s fault that Parker is an idiot—a math-savvy idiot, but an idiot nonetheless—and so I fix that one, too.
“So in addition to killing Bambis, you’re also good at algebra?” I ask.
“I have many talents. But killing Bambis isn’t one of them. Not when there are so many grizzly bears out there.” Yeah, right. “And I don’t think Bambi has a plural form.”
“Oh, so you’re a grammar expert now?”
“You know I’m right.”
“Whatever.”
“So I hear you and Jessie managed to short-circuit her entire house.” Parker changes the subject. He so is killing Bambis on his hunting trips. Bambi? Crap. Maybe I should just start saying baby deer like any normal person would?
“And Ciara.” I wonder if I could get Parker to solve a few more of my math problems for me while we are at it. I’d have one less thing to worry about.
“And Ciara,” he says. “Didn’t know you guys were friends.”
“We’re not. It was a one-time thing.” I start writing again, deliberately making a mistake.
Parker takes the pen and notebook from me, crosses out what I just wrote—which is a whole bunch of nonsense—and starts writing the correct answer. Wow, that was easy.
“I don’t think you should hang out with her.” I almost fall out of my chair
when I hear that. I know he doesn’t have any boundaries, but this is a little ridiculous even for him.
“And why, pray tell?”
Parker gives me a cursory glance. He’s pretty good at multitasking for a guy—solving math problems and getting on my nerves at the same time. “I hope you didn’t assume she was hanging out with you for your company, did you? She has her own agenda and I doubt it’s something that’s going to benefit you in the end.”
I really want to smack him on the forehead for suggesting something like that, but he is still solving my math problems and he seems to be doing a pretty good job at it, so I decide to restrain my anger for just a few more minutes. “Huh,” is all I say. I find solace in the thought that I know more about Ciara’s agenda than he does.
When Parker finishes the problems on the first page, I flip to the next one. “There are two more over here.”
He arches an eyebrow at me, but doesn’t say anything and solves those, too. When he finishes all of my math homework, I close the notebook, smooth out the edges, and then smack Parker on the head with it. I aim at the top of his head so as not to hit his bruises—I’m not a total monster—but from the way he grunts and winces it looks like he might have a really bad bruise right under that black hair of his. I almost feel guilty about what I just did. Almost.
“What was that for?” He asks with such innocent eyes I almost believe that he has no idea. I bet the poor baby deer looked at him the same way. Before he killed it.
“For thinking that you have any right to tell me who I can or cannot hang out with. And for suggesting that people hang out with me only because they want something from me.” Okay, not people, just one person, but still.
“After I do your math homework for you, you hit me on the head with it?” He doesn’t sound mad at all. The right corner of his mouth—the one without the swelling—even slants upward in a semblance of a smile.
“Um, kind of.” Okay, it is a little ridiculous. “Now that you phrase it that way, I suppose it wasn’t the most gracious thing to do. But you’re an ass. You know that, right?”
“That’s not a reason to hit someone on the head.” He attempts to rub the place where I smacked him, but then cringes and pulls his hand away.
“So you don’t argue about the ass part?” Wow, he must really be in shock.
“Really, Munchkin, you should stop talking about my ass or people will get the wrong impression.”
I turn red and can’t even think of a proper comeback. Actually, I can think of many, but my face is so flushed that I know anything I say will be used against me. “You need to put some ice on those bruises,” I say against my better judgment.
“Nah, I’ll be fine. I heal fast.”
“It looks painful,” I say.
“I’ll get over it. Not the first bruise I ever got and definitely not the last one.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You know, if I got beaten up over and over again, I’d try to figure out a way for it not to happen again. No, scratch that. I’d just not get beaten up in the first place.”
Parker grins. “Who says I got beaten up?”
“Um, I think the bruises on your face—and the top of your head—speak well for themselves.”
“That’s not getting beaten up. That’s just what happens when there’s a small disagreement within the team.”
“So what did actually happen? I mean, I know you all have testosterone problems, being teenage boys and all, but detention? Seriously?”
“I’m just as puzzled as you are. The coach has always been threatening to send us to detention, but who knew he actually meant it?”
“So you just what? Started beating each other up for no good reason?”
“Oh, there’s always a reason. At least, you can always find one if you really want to. Like to test if the coach meant his threats about detention.” The undamaged side of Parker’s mouth slides upward in a lopsided grin.
No. “Please tell me you did not beat up half of the football team just to ruin my detention.”
“Now why would you suggest something like that?” Parker raises his eyebrows as if I have said something preposterous.
“Right.” Like I should believe anything those eyebrows say.
“I just hit one guy and the rest took care of themselves.”
“Uh-huh. You know, that’s a whole new low even for you.”
“Are you saying that’s even lower than killing Bambi—not that I’m admitting to anything.”
“No, I guess not. It’s still pretty bad, though.”
He doesn’t say anything for a while, but then out of nowhere, “About last night.”
“Huh? What about last night?”
“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.” He scratches his chin and grimaces. Does that hurt, too? It doesn’t look like there’s a bruise down there, but maybe it just hasn’t had enough time to manifest yet? “Logan said you guys were having The Undead Chronicles marathon and short-circuited the entire house. What exactly were you plugging in?”
Logan didn’t tell his best buddy about the horned one? Well, I suppose it’s not like he could actually tell anyone about Azzie and not have that person call the ambulance or more likely the Mystic Hollow Mental Asylum. That’s where all those people who believe in things we have actually witnessed find a loving and caring home.
“Nothing, really. It’s probably old wiring or something. I don’t know how those things work. Or it could be Logan’s music. You should’ve heard it—I think he woke up all the dogs in the neighborhood.” Yeah, blame it on someone else, that always works.
“Hmm. There were some strange atmospheric conditions in town last night. I thought maybe those two things were related.”
“Strange atmospheric conditions? What does that even mean?”
“There was an isolated thunderstorm over Mystic Hollow.”
“I didn’t notice any thunderstorms.” Although I might have missed the rumble of thunder, being unconscious after a magical explosion and all.
“Did you feel anything strange last night? Any headaches? Did Ciara act weird in any way?” he asks, staring at me intently as if I can actually understand what he is talking about.
“Why are you being weird?” I ask.
Parker shrugs. “Not weird. Just curious.”
“Well, stop it. And what’s next? Are you going to ask me if I felt any cold spots in the house or smelled sulfur?”
He stares at me blankly. “Why would I ask you if you smelled sulfur? Or—what was it? Cold spots?” he asks, looking puzzled.
I stare at him in disbelief. Has he seriously never seen Supernatural? What rock has he been living under?
“Never mind.” It will take me an eternity to explain the intricacies of demon and ghost hunting. “So about Ciara’s strange behavior. Well, other than the fact she was hanging out with Jessie and me, I can’t think of anything else out of the ordinary. And I don’t remember anyone complaining about any headaches.” Other than the magical explosion induced ones, but those had nothing to do with any thunderstorms. “Can you tell me why you are asking all these weird questions?”
“No reason.”
“Fine. Can you tell me why you think Ciara has a secret agenda when it comes to spending time with Jessie and me?”
“Sure. But first, can you tell me what will happen if I tell your math teacher I did your homework for you?”
I squint at him. “Are you blackmailing me?”
“No, I think blackmail requires that you have something of value to me, and I don’t think that’s the case here, Munchkin.”
“I hate you.”
“I know you’re crazy about me.” He grins. “You don’t have to say it all the time.”
I want to tear my math notebook into tiny little pieces, burn them to ashes, and smear them all over his stupid grin. But I settle for just ignoring him for the next fifteen minutes.
Luckily, I don’t have to do even that, because Ms. Johanssen dec
ides to cut the detention short—it doesn’t seem to be working anyway, as instead of contemplating their bad behavior, everyone is having way too much fun.
Chapter 10
I decide to walk home. Well, decide is too strong a word. The school bus left hours ago, Chloe always gets a ride home with one of her friends, and since I missed the bus, I don’t have much of a choice. But when I reach the entrance and open the front doors, there is a sheet of pelting rain falling down. I can barely see the other students scurrying around in the parking lot, getting into their cars, and driving away.
“Oh crap,” I say. The library is already closed, so I have only two options: wait right here until the rain is over—which can take an entire afternoon, or walk home in the rain—which can take an entire afternoon. I can also call my mom and ask her to pick me up, but it’s a coin toss: she will either come and get me in fifteen minutes or she will forget about my call the moment she puts her phone down and leave me stranded here until dinner time.
“Hey, Munchkin, need a ride home?” Parker appears in the doorway. He looks too happy for this weather.
Okay, now I have another option, which doesn’t take an entire afternoon, but is the least appealing of all my choices.
I sigh. “Yeah, I do.”
“Come on.” He takes off his jacket and spreads it over our heads like a canvas. We run towards his car, and even though we run quickly and the jacket is pretty good at protecting our heads from the rain, we are still drenched when we get inside Parker’s car. He turns the heat on right away, but I can’t stop shivering for a while. I’m still clutching my school bag to my chest, trying to save it and all the books inside from the relentless moisture, but it doesn’t seem to be working at all. I’m afraid to look inside and find that picture I barely tore out of my mom’s clutches completely ruined. I should’ve left it at home, but I really wanted to show it to Jessie. But with all the things that happened today I completely forgot about it.
I give Parker my address and we drive off in silence, which I’m very grateful for. Parker is focused on the road—and there is a lot to focus on as the rain is horrible and so is the visibility on the road. I have things to focus on as well. When I finally stop shivering, I try to think of some other ways to find information about that mysterious witchlight. Apparently, at least from what Azzie told us, a spell on how to make a witchlight is a big secret and witches don’t usually share it with outsiders. So, even though I still think it’s a good idea to check out books about witches and witchcraft in the library, I have doubts we’ll find anything useful there. Our only other option, our only other connection to the world of witches is Ciara, and even though she says that she knows nothing about witchlights or how to make them, I’m pretty sure she must know some other witches. I mean, her mother was a witch, and so is her aunt.
A Witch and a Secret (Witches of Mystic Hollow Book 1) Page 9