Parties & Potions

by Sarah Mlynowski

  “When did you get them?” I ask Adam.

  “Last September.”

  “You’re practically a veteran,” I tease.

  “How do y’all know each other?” Praw asks. He looks at me, but his eyes keep darting back to Miri. He smiles at her. He has a nice smile. Dimples too. She takes another sip of water.

  “We go way back,” Adam says.

  “Waaaay back,” I say. “Years.”

  “Decades,” he counters.

  “Lifetimes.” Tee hee. Adam might be my new best friend. My new cute boy best friend. I’ve never had a boy best friend before. Fun! Someone to talk to, someone besides my possibly male unborn half sibling to help me understand the inner workings of the boy brain. Adam will be just like a brother! But not related. And cute. A BBF (best boy friend) of my very own. That’s boy friend. Two words. Not boyfriend. One word. See the difference? Good thing I learned how to make spaces on my cell phone, or things could get really confusing.

  A girl sashays into the cafeteria.

  “Adam,” she calls, “where have you been? I’ve been looking for you.”

  “Hey, Karin,” he says. “Did you stay late last night?”

  “Yeah. I’m wiped.” She flicks her long blond hair behind her right shoulder. How about that? She’s the first blond witch I’ve encountered so far. She’s also like six feet tall, and super-curvy She’s Barbie Witch. People shouldn’t get to look like Barbies and be witches. You should get one or the other. Fair’s fair.

  What does Barbie Witch want with my new BBF? Are they a couple? I bet they’re a couple. Not that I care. I have a boyfriend, you know. A boyfriend I’m meeting tonight at seven-thirty

  “Hey, Praw,” Barbie Witch says, and pinches his cheeks. “What’s up, cutie? And who are you guys?” she asks us, wedging between us at the table.

  I look at Miri to see if she’s going to answer, but apparently she’s still comatose. “I’m Rachel. And this is Miri, my sister.”

  “Nice to meet you. How come we’ve never met you before? Did you just move to the U.S.?”

  “No,” I say with a sigh.

  “I thought we knew every teen witch in the country,” Adam says with a laugh.

  I’m seriously going to kill my mother. “We were kind of kept in the dark until the last year,” I admit.

  “Well, welcome!” Karin says. “I love meeting new witches.”

  Praw hops off his stool. “I gotta get to Brixta class. See y’all later. Karin, you can have my seat.”

  “Thanks!”

  “I have to go too,” Adam says. “One month until my Sim and I still have no idea what I’m doing. We’ll see you guys later?”

  “Definitely,” I say. “Have fun!”

  Miri squeaks good-bye.

  The three of us watch the boys go. Karin squeezes our hands. “So, are you guys doing the Samsorta class too?”

  “Yeah,” Miri says, finally regaining her voice.

  “Fun!” she chirps. “I want the full scoop. Who are your parents? Do they both have powers? When did yours kick in?”

  The Q and A session goes on for the next two hours. Karin takes a brief lunch break to devour her Caesar salad, but quickly resumes after the last bite.

  I worry she’ll go on indefinitely, but the lights begin to flicker.

  And when I say flicker, I don’t mean on and off. A rain-bow of green, gold, red, and yellow washes over our faces, like there’s a disco ball overhead. Maybe this place turns into a dance club at night? A witch-rave? A wave?

  A voice from the sky screams, “Ladies, please enter the auditorium! Samsorta class is about to start!”

  “Let’s go!” Karin says, pulling us by the hands. “I want to get a seat up front! I have a lot of questions!”

  No kidding.

  We let Karin lead us out of the cafeteria, back into the atrium and then, along with a herd of other girls—no, a herd of other witches—through the double auditorium doors.

  The Girls of Sam

  “What you experienced this year was the most amazing transformation of your life. You went from notch to witch. Less than a hundredth of one percent of the world’s population has the capabilities you do.”

  “I wish I’d brought a sweater,” I whisper to Miri. “It’s freezing in here. What’s with the insane air-conditioning?”

  “Shush!” she says. “I’m trying to take notes.”

  Of course she is. Student Miri is adorable. She doesn’t doodle. She highlights. She listens intently. She nods along with our turtle-shaped (round body, tiny arms and legs) teacher, Kesselin Fizguin. No, Kesselin is not her first name. Apparently, it means teacher in Brixta.

  Fizguin hasn’t said much worth noting so far. First she took attendance; then she welcomed us to the center. Only a few of us had never been here before. She told us that we were expected to come to every class and that there would be a fifteen-minute break halfway through every lecture. Boo on the first part, but yay on the second. Maybe I can use my break to order another hot drink to warm me up.

  “The Samsorta is how we witches honor this extraordi-nary moment. It’s our way—a way that has endured for centuries—of introducing you to the rest of the magical world.”

  “You’re really not cold?” I whisper. How is that possible? It’s like minus twenty degrees in here. My arms are covered in goose bumps. Other than that, the classroom is pretty comfortable. It’s all white. Every seat is covered with a fluffy white cushion. The floor is a lush white carpet. I feel like I’m at an Apple store. Or inside a marshmallow.

  “Over the next seven weeks, I will be talking about the history of witches, the ethics of magic, a witch’s responsibilities, magic and family life, and magic in the modern world. And of course, we’ll practice the spells you’re required to perform during the Samsorta ceremony.”

  Unfortunately, Fizguin occasionally spits when she makes the S sound, and Karin led us to the front row. There are fifteen girls in class, all between the ages of about ten and fifteen.

  I’m pretty sure I’m one of the oldest girls here—if not the oldest.

  Miri is sitting to my right. On my left is Karin. Next to Karin is Viviane. Karin introduced us. Viviane lives in Sun-set Park in Brooklyn. She has cool bangs, has hipster square glasses, and is wearing a funky vintage maroon tunic and gray leggings. When Miri heard she’s in the eighth grade too, her eyes lit up.

  I squeeze my sister’s arm. “You guys can be BFFs!” I whisper, like a real matchmaker.

  She shushes me.

  But seriously, they can be! And then we can call her Viv, which is the best name ever. Plus she can teach us how to shop at vintage stores! I’ve always wanted to but I’m nervous I’ll accidentally bring home outfits infested with moths.

  “There are three parts to the ceremony,” Fizguin is saying. “The first is the opening march, when all Samsorta witches walk in by school affiliation.”

  I lean over to Miri and whisper, “But how many witches could there be at each school? JFK only has two, and I thought that was a lot.” One too many, if you want my opinion.

  “She means by witch school,” Miri whispers back. “Here. Lozacea.”

  Right.

  “Once the opening march is complete,” the teacher continues, “your alimity will stand before you in the circle. Your alimity is a female relative, usually your mother, who has already been Samsorted. One at a time, each alimity asks each Samsorta if she is willing to join the circle of magic. Once you—the Samsorta—agree, the alimity will use the golden knife to remove a lock of your hair.”

  Seriously? How third grade.

  “Once that part of the ritual is complete, your alimity will approach the central cauldron and make her offering. We shall go clockwise around the circle, beginning with the oldest Samsorta.”

  Oh God. Is that going to be me? I bet it is. So embarrassing.

  The teacher points in my direction. “Ms. Weinstein?”

  Whoa. Why is she calling on me? Is she trying to
tell me I am the oldest? She’d better not want a piece of my hair right now. I can’t give it! I need to strategize with Este! What if she accidentally lops off an important piece? “Yes?” I ask.

  “Not you, Rachel,” Fizguin says. “Your sister has her hand raised.”

  Oh! I forgot that Miri is a Ms. Weinstein too.

  “What,” begins Miri, “if two girls share the same alimity? Is that an issue?”

  “If the alimity is shepherding more than one of you,” Fizguin says, “she will collect all the locks before approaching the cauldron. After all the alimities have completed their offerings, they will be returned to their seats.”

  I wonder where they’re sitting. Isn’t it supposed to be at a cemetery? Are they going to make themselves comfy on burial plots? Kick their heels up on a gravestone? Creepapalooza.

  Fizguin paces the front of the auditorium and continues. “The third part of the ceremony is the Chain of Lights ser-vice. Each of you will recite the light spell, in Brixta, and set your candle aflame.”

  In Brixta? Uh-oh. Hopefully we can get it written out phonetically.

  “This time we will go counterclockwise. The final girl will bring her candle to the central cauldron and set it aflame.”

  Karin raises her hand. “Is it going to be a Charm School girl again this year?”

  “Yes, it is customary for a Charmori student to cast the wonderment spell. Their school is the oldest and most traditional.”

  Everyone grumbles.

  “But you’re all chanting the wonderment incantation together, since the gift the spell creates, the giftoro, must come from all of you. Can someone list some of these gifts for those of us who are not familiar? Don’t be afraid to go back a few years.”

  Karin raises her hand. “The Panama Canal, Niagara Falls, the Empire State Building, playing cards, the Pyramids, the Great Barrier Reef, iPods, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, the polio vaccine, Mount Everest—”

  “Well done,” Fizguin says, cutting her off.

  Was that for real? I glance at the other girls. No one is laughing, so apparently it is. No way! My witchcraft sisters created the Pyramids! And iPods! I bet we also did the Chi. We must have. It’s too brilliant to have been concocted by mere mortal minds. Maybe TiVo?

  Perhaps this year we can work on some sort of boob en-larger?

  “Those are some of the more successful gifts,” Fizguin continues. “Of course there have been others that have been less successful, or at least less attractive. Like those”— she wrinkles her nose with disdain—“Croc shoes.”

  I guess witches don’t always have good taste.

  “Unfortunately, as Samsortas, you can’t control what you give. Your giftoro is created from deep within your collective unconscious.” She taps her temples for emphasis. “And often it takes a few weeks, if not months, for your legacy to become clear. And that’s the end of the ceremony. Afterwards there is the dinner and dance. Your table can be any size you’d like from two to three hundred seats, but we do need to know final numbers at least twenty-four hours before the Samsorta. Oh, and of course you’re each responsible for your own invitations. Any questions?”

  Karin raises her hand. “Can we bring dates?”

  “Of course. The first dance after the ceremony is for the Samsortas and their dates. But remember to count them as part of your table. Any other questions?”

  No date for me. Sorry, but I cannot bring Raf to this freak show. No way. Not happening. Whatever. It’s not like Miri’s going to bring a date. I’ll just have to sit that first dance out.

  Karin raises her hand again. “Who’s the band?”

  “That’s a surprise. Anything else?”

  Karin raises her hand again.

  “Anyone else?”

  Karin raises it higher.

  “Yes, Ms. Hennedy?”

  “How many girls will be doing their Samsorta this year? From all the schools, I mean.”

  “Eighty-four. Next?”

  I’d better not be the oldest of eighty-four girls! Beyond humiliating. I’d be like a parent at a pop concert.

  “That’s it? Let me ask a question, then. How many of you haven’t taken Brixta 101 or its equivalent?”

  Miri and I are the only students who raise our hands. Thanks again, Mom.

  “Well, girls, you’re in for a real treat. Brixta is one of the most beautiful languages ever spoken. It’s very melodious. Like music to the ears.”

  What I’m not looking forward to is having to study this so-called music. All this Samsorta stuff is going to seriously cut into my TV schedule.

  Miri raises her hand again. “How would you suggest studying Brixta at this point?”

  “It’s too late to study it now,” Fizguin says. “We’ll get you a language potion.”

  Now, that’s music to my ears. Television-theme-song music.

  “Do you know that at Charm School they make you study Brixta for two years before you take Samsorta lessons?” whispers Heather, from the row behind us.

  Heather is sitting between Shari and Michy And they are—wait for it—triplets. Imagine! Witch triplets!

  If you’re witch triplets, you definitely get a TV show.

  According to Karin, they’re identical triplets. They all have stick-straight light brown hair, pale skin, and tiny bird-like features. They are dressed differently, though. Heather is the earthy triplet; she’s wearing faded jeans and a loose-fit-ting hemp shirt. Shari is the preppy triplet—beige cords, a striped sweater, barrettes. And Michy is the glamour triplet; she’s in designer jeans, a fitted shirt, and patent leather flats.

  I wish I were a triplet. Or a twin at the very least. Then I could ask my twin to try on outfits and go outside to see if they looked good. Much more effective than a mirror, since it’s always the outdoor light that gets you.

  Although I’m thinking it would be even more fun to dress up in identical outfits. To play pranks on people. How hilarious would that be? We could pretend to be each other and go to the other’s classes, go shopping with each other’s friends, hang out with each other’s boyfriends….

  Omigod. What if Other Rachel tries to kiss Raf? He would have no idea it wasn’t me. She could totally go Sweet Valley on me and try to steal him away!

  Forget about Other Rachel. She’s obviously up to no good. I’ll stick with Miri. “Do you think we should dress alike?”

  She shushes me. Again.

  After zapping up a plate of nachos during my break, I fix my sandal and then sneak into a deserted corner to call Raf.

  “Hey!” I say. “Happy Saturday.”

  “A happy Saturday to you too. What’s up?”

  “The roof?”

  “Ha. Where are you, Grand Central? Sounds busy.”

  “Me? Oh. Um …” Where am I? “I’m shopping. Yeah! I’m shopping!”

  “Where?”

  “At H&M.” Hexes & Magic, that is. “On Eighteenth?”

  “No way! I’m at Union Square! Want me to come say hello?”

  “Oh! No. Don’t. We’re on the move. And we’re in a rush. A big rush. Huge.”

  “I don’t mind. I’ll come by for a second. I’m only a block away.”

  Yikes. “No, we’re really already gone. We’re getting into a cab. Next time! But I’ll see you tonight at seven-thirty?”

  “Oh. Okay,” he says, sounding deflated.

  We make plans to go to T’s Pies for pizza (I might seriously turn into a pie) and then pick up a movie at Block-buster. Dinner out, then cuddling with Raf!

  Perfect. As long as he doesn’t pepper with me with more questions about my shopping experience.

  When class ends, Miri and I follow the other girls back into the atrium. I glance at the clock on my cell, which has conveniently adjusted to Arizona time. So smart, my little guy! I bet the cell phone was a collective unconscious Samsorta gift. I bet the regular phone was one too. Maybe Alexander Bell was a warlock. I should have paid more attention to the history of witchcraft part of the lecture.
Anyway, it’s 4:01 here, which means it’s 7:01 New York time. Time to get home to get ready for my date with Raf. The seven of us congregate in the atrium to say good-bye. Apparently, I have a witch group. A witch clique. A wique?

  I spot Adam across the atrium. I wave.

  He hurries over and gives us a lopsided grin. “Do you guys want to come surfing with us?”

  Surfing? Hello? We’re in Arizona.

  “Who’s going?” Karin asks.

  “Me, Praw, Michael, Fitch, and Rodge.” As he lists them, four other boys join our group. “We’re celebrating Fitch’s last study day, since his Sim is on Friday” He points to me and Miri and says, “Rachel and Miri, meet Michael, Fitch, and Rodge. And you already know Praw.”

  “Hey,” they say Michael is dark-skinned, tall, and lanky. Fitch is short and pasty, and wearing thick glasses. Rodge is super-muscular and has gelled-back black hair. I’m guessing they’re all sophomores or juniors. At least I’m not the oldest person in the building—just the oldest one who doesn’t shave. My face, I mean. Of course I shave my legs. My mom tells me I shouldn’t, because she claims it’ll grow back twice as thick, but that makes no sense, because if it did, then wouldn’t bald men shave their whole heads? Although if they’re bald, they have nothing to shave. What was the point of all this? I forget.

  “Hey,” I say.

  Miri just squeaks. What is up with her and the squeaking?

  Omigod. I know! She likes Praw. Miri likes a boy! Yay!

  “So are you in?” Adam asks. “Surf’s up.”

  “I’m in,” Karin says.

  “I’m kind of tired,” Glamour Triplet says, putting on her oversized sunglasses. “But I’m happy to rest on the beach and soak up some rays.”

  “What beach?” Karin asks. “South Beach?”

  “No,” Michael says. “It’s already seven-fifteen on the East Coast. We need to go west. How about Hawaii?”

  Are they seriously going to pop over to Hawaii for sun and surf?

  “Yo, let’s go to Hanauma Beach,” Viv says. “It has a great vibe.”

  “I’m in if y’all are,” says Praw.

  “I’m in,” says Michael.