by Lara Chapman
Out of forty-eight new Seekers entering Dowling, I had to get paired with the horrid and venomous Kendall. I shouldn’t be surprised she’s here. Of all the people I know, she’s the one most likely to carry the evil-witch gene.
At 3:58, Kendall tells her parents it’s time for them to leave. Unlike my own mother, Mrs. Scott doesn’t stall or fret. She gives Kendall a brisk hug, more like a coach might do before a big game than a mother leaving her daughter at a boarding school. For witches.
On second thought, if I was Kendall’s mother, I’d be kind of excited about leaving Kendall here too.
“Be good, and please, be on time. For once.” Her mom narrows her eyes in warning.
“Don’t forget to call,” her dad says, patting his daughter’s shoulder awkwardly, as if showing affection is foreign to him. If I didn’t know how awful Kendall is, I’d feel sorry for her. Kendall walks to the door and opens it wide. “I’ll call,” she says quietly. I’m struck by the softness in her voice, a side of her I haven’t seen in years. Maybe ever. Is it possible she’s nervous too?
She stands in the doorway, watching her parents leave. I sit up in bed, thinking maybe, just maybe, Kendall will attempt to be civil now that we’re stuck together and all we have is each other.
Right here, right now, we are equal.
She shuts the door behind her parents. It doesn’t close automatically, making me second-guess what I thought I saw when Heather left the room. Kendall goes to the bathroom and locks the door behind her. I fight the urge to put my ear to the door to see if she’s crying. But when she comes out seconds later, her eyes are clear, every hair on her head positioned perfectly.
Of course she wasn’t crying. That would require her to have a heart.
“Funny about our pillows,” I say, nervous laughter breaking my words. “They’re exactly the same.”
Silence.
Why am I even talking to her?
She yanks the chair from her desk and straddles it, facing me. Heaving a big sigh, she pulls the lanyard off her neck and tosses it carelessly onto her desk. I stop myself from suggesting she put a tack on the wall beside her bed to hang it on like I did.
“Let’s get one thing straight, Hallie,” she says, her voice quiet, mean. I brace myself for what she’s about to say, for what she’s about to call me. What’s it going to be today? Four-eyes? Geek? Loser? Freak?
I don’t say anything, just push my glasses up.
“Nothing has changed. We may be in a new school with new people and new teachers, but you’re still you and I’m still me. You and I,” she says, pointing back and forth between us, “are just roommates. We will never be friends.”
So much for new beginnings.
“I wouldn’t want it any other way,” I tell her, wondering if Miss A can move me to a different room. The janitor’s closet, maybe.
Kendall pushes out of the chair, lies on the bed, and closes her eyes.
I stare in shock, lie back on my own bed, and wonder what I did to deserve the curse of Kendall.
Four
I leave we’ll-never-be-friends Kendall on her bed and my dorky glasses on my dresser. The hallway is more alive than when I arrived, each girl wearing identical nervous smiles. Roommates stand close together, forging small but coveted alliances. Jealousy twists in my chest. Why did I have to get stuck with Kendall? Perfect, popular, petty Kendall.
Straightening my lanyard, I pull my shoulders back and take a deep, slow breath. The trip down the hall feels like a walk through the social gauntlet—a big smile here, a polite hello there, a sweet grin in between. Move over, Miss Congeniality . . . Hallie’s here!
At the end of the hallway, a girl walks out of her room alone. Two long, red braids frame her tense face.
I slow my steps and dare myself to be more outgoing. “Time to look around, I guess.” I wave the map for unnecessary emphasis. Like she doesn’t know what I mean by “look around.”
She chews on her lip, nerves defying her attempt to look casual.
Maybe it’s the braids, or the freckles dotting her nose, but she reminds me of a sweet, little farm girl.
Not a witch. Not by a long-handled broom.
“Want to explore Dowling with me?”
She smiles, mouth full of braces with neon-green rubber bands. “Sure.”
I peek over her shoulder to look inside her room. “Should we ask your roommate to come with us?”
She shakes her head and shuts the door. No magical door here, either. A small bubble of hope bursts inside me. I was kind of wishing those were real.
“Nah,” she says. “She knows her way around.”
My mind trips over her comment like it’s a speed bump. How does her roommate know her way around? Everyone on this floor is new.
I ignore the urge to ask her about it, and shake it off. I just met her; questions can come later. “Okay, cool. I’m Hallie. Hallie Simon.”
“Ivy Oliver,” she says, her voice steady, all trace of anxiety gone or well hidden.
Because she’s taller than me, I have to work to match her steps. We go past the lobby, where only a handful of adults and a few older girls, Heather included, are talking quietly. They must be waiting for the next group to arrive.
Ivy stops in the large open area off the lobby. “Where do you want to go first?”
I glance at the map like I don’t have it memorized. Gathering Circle on the left, dining room straight ahead, library on the right, and some specialty rooms in the basement. I don’t know what’s so special about those rooms, but I don’t do basements unless there’s an F-5 tornado. They make me feel like I’m being buried alive in a damp coffin.
“Looks like we’ll come to the Gathering Circle first,” I say.
We walk in silence with other girls from our hallway, some stopping to look at the oversize portraits hanging on the walls. I’m curious about them too, but Ivy doesn’t seem interested, so we keep on walking.
“My sister graduated from Dowling a couple of years ago,” she says. “But I’ve never been past the lobby.”
“You’re lucky. I’m the first girl in five generations to attend Dowling.”
“You’re the first girl in your family in five generations?” Ivy asks.
“I wish I had someone to talk to who’s been here before,” I say.
Ivy shakes her head. “Wouldn’t matter. They can’t tell you anything, and they never show you any cool tricks. It’s against the code.” Her dark green eyes roll expertly. “Whatever that means.”
We stop inside the Gathering Circle and let our eyes adjust to the dim lighting.
“Wow,” Ivy whispers.
I nod, not trusting my voice to be quiet enough for this space. You can just tell that in this room, no one speaks above a hush.
The room is sunken, with a large, triangular stage at the bottom. Its bare wooden floor is polished, patiently awaiting its next speaker. There are no microphones, no stools, no lecture stands. In the center stands a gold, triangular table holding a half dozen crystal containers with various colored liquids that swirl like they’re being stirred by an invisible straw. A small bronze vase containing some type of herb catches my attention. I squint my eyes, trying to see better.
Surrounding the stage are six circular rows of seats, each row lower than the one before. Kind of like a very fancy, circular movie theater. The whole thing reminds me of a big dart board, and the stage is the bull’s-eye.
White candles of every size in glass containers hang from thick chains, giving the room a calm, peaceful feeling.
My mind buzzes with questions. Questions I’m not sure I want answers to.
What kinds of events take place in here?
What exactly is in the crystal containers?
What are we expected to do with them?
Ivy gives me a friendly shoulder-to-shoulder bump. “Don’t look so worried. We’ll be fine.”
I force my face to relax. “Oh, yeah. Fine.”
I follow Ivy out of th
e Gathering Circle and stop at the first portrait I see.
“Guess these are all the important witches who went to Dowling,” Ivy says. “Cool, huh?”
“Very. I kind of have a thing for history.”
Ivy’s freckled nose wrinkles. “Eww. Really?”
My heart sinks a little, making me wish I could turn back time and take back those words. There are definitely cooler things I could have said. Things like “If you’re into that kind of thing.” Or “Yeah, I guess,” with a bored shrug.
The woman in the portrait doesn’t look like a witch. She looks more like a movie star with jet-black hair in long perfect curls. Her pale blue eyes sparkle with life, and there’s a tiny little snicker lifting one corner of her full red lips. You can tell she was the kind of woman who knew things—and did things—she probably shouldn’t have.
Ivy’s voice breaks my trance. “High Priestess Dannabelle Grimm, 1845–1851.”
“I wonder what she was like, what her powers were,” I say, more to myself than Ivy. Could she create a tornado in an attic?
I make a mental note of Dannabelle’s name so I can look her up. Assuming I’ll be allowed to use the library.
Our attention is pulled from Dannabelle by squeals of happiness followed by somber reprimands floating from the lobby.
“Let’s go see,” Ivy says, a zing of excitement in her voice.
I linger at the portrait a few more seconds before following Ivy. Even as we move farther away, I can’t shake the feeling that Dannabelle’s watching me, that her eyes are moving as I move, that she wants me to come back to her.
Ivy freezes, and I run into her rigid body. I look over her shoulder and blink hard.
The lobby is a frenzy of activity. Girls hugging, teachers passing out schedules, and family trunks whizzing up the stairs. On their own. Trunks are literally gliding up the stairs, a foot or two off the ground.
Unattended.
Like they know where they’re going.
I clap both hands over my mouth and attempt to swallow the panic stuck in my throat. So much for the new, totally-in-control Hallie.
Some of the girls look at us, wave like there’s nothing unusual happening, and go back to whatever they were doing.
A blur of multicolored fabric steals my gaze from the staircase. My body goes soft with relief when I realize it’s Miss A.
“Now, girls, don’t be startled,” she says, hurrying toward us with a shiny smile. “This kind of thing happens a lot around here, but if you ask me . . . ,” she says with a wink, “the girls are showing off for you. This is their first year as Crafters, and I suppose they’re just happy they aren’t the new kids anymore.”
“Crafters?” I ask.
Miss A takes my hand and pats Ivy on the shoulder. “You know, Crafters. It’s what you’ll be when you finish your year as a Seeker.”
Ivy’s now glassy eyes squint like she’s trying to see something a mile away. “You mean, next year . . . Next year . . . We?” Her once steady voice now shakes like she’s talking into a fan, and her face is a weird grayish color.
Miss A answers Ivy’s unasked question. “Next year that will be you.”
Ivy looks at me, shakes her head slowly, then crumbles like a crashing Jenga tower.
Miss A flicks her fingers like she’s trying to shake water off her hands. Before Ivy slumps to the ground in a heap, her body freezes in place. As if someone pushed the pause button on a movie.
I stare, wide-eyed, at Miss A, at Ivy suspended midfall, and force myself to breathe.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
“I . . . How d-d-did you . . . ,” I stammer, stumbling over my thoughts.
“Sugar, you’re in a school for witches. How do you think I did it?” Miss A gives me a look, like we’re sharing a forbidden piece of gum in church.
“Right.” Reading about magic in books seems safe, kind of exciting. Seeing it in person is mind-warping.
Am I really going to have that kind of power? Do I want it?
Miss A lowers her head, her eyes intense. A curl pops loose from the cluster of bobby pins in her hair, as if it, too, wants to see what’s happening. The curl moves, grows fatter, and twists. I lean closer to see what it really is. Did that curl have eyes? Miss A swipes her hand through her hair, and whatever I saw disappears.
Breathe, Hallie.
In.
Out.
Miss A’s voice is surprisingly stern and low when she speaks. “My precious little Seeker, wake. From this fall no memory you’ll take.”
Miss A twirls her hands upward, and in an instant Ivy is back on her feet. Her innocent eyes find mine.
“Are you okay?” she asks me. “You don’t look so good.”
I don’t scream, “Of course I’m not okay!” And I don’t run to the phone outside Miss A’s room, call my parents, and beg them to take me home. One look at Miss A’s meaningful expression, and I know what I have to do.
I lie to my only friend at Dowling. “Couldn’t be better.”
Five
I grab Ivy’s hand, partly because I’m worried she’ll faint again and partly because I’m worried I might pass out myself.
Miss A puts her hands on our backs, leading us away from the flying trunks. “Why don’t you two go on into the GC and get comfy?”
Ivy and I share confused looks.
“GC, Gathering Circle, to-may-to, to-mah-to,” Miss A says, pointing to the room we just left. “It’s always smart to get there a little early before it gets too crowded. I’ll be there in two shakes.”
With a couple of quick pats to our backs, she half-shoves us into the line of girls walking into the GC.
Closer to the entrance I see Kendall. She’s smiling from ear to ear and talking closely with the girl next to her. I should have known Kendall would find someone else to buddy with. Anyone but me. And I can just tell from looking at the other girl that they are as perfect together as Thelma and Louise.
“There’s my roommate,” Ivy mumbles. “Nice to see her highness decided to leave the dungeon.”
I follow Ivy’s stare and realize she’s talking about Kendall’s friend. “Her? The one next to the blonde with her arms crossed?”
Ivy nods, eyes squinted into angry little slits.
“Why don’t you like her?”
Eyes wide, she gawks at me. “Hello, that’s Zena.”
I shake my head. “No clue what you’re talking about.”
We take a few steps forward, but Ivy keeps her eyes pinned on me. “Are you serious? Have you honestly not done a single second of research on this place?”
“Umm . . .” Yeah. Looking back, I probably should’ve done that. In fact, it’s totally unlike me to not research every aspect of Dowling before arriving. I guess I really never thought I’d actually come.
She sighs deeply. “My roommate is the Zena Fallon.”
“As in Headmistress Fallon?”
“Bingo,” Ivy says. “Zena is her daughter. Zena thought she’d have her choice of rooms and that she’d be allowed to live without a roommate. She’s lived at Dowling with her mother her entire life, but this is the first year she’ll live at Dowling as a student.”
I nod, trying to take it all in. The headmistress has a daughter? And we have to go to school with her?
“She threw a total tantrum when Miss A told her that she’d be rooming with me.”
“Jeez,” I whisper, moving even closer to the entrance.
“She wanted to be in the last room and alone. But her mother didn’t have the heart to break the news to her beforehand, so I was lucky enough to witness the entire scene with Miss A. She swore she’d never leave the room, and Miss A told her to build a bridge and get over it.”
I giggle at that, and Ivy laughs too.
“The girl she’s with?” I say. “That’s my roommate.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“The worst part is that she’s just like Zena.�
�
“No one’s as bad as Zena,” Ivy says, head shaking as we clear the doorway to the darkened room.
“Trust me. I’ve known Kendall my whole life. She’s worse than Lucifer himself.”
Inside the entrance to the Gathering Circle, we’re stopped by a woman in a dark red, floor-length dress. She is as perfect as a person could ever be. Flawless everything—skin, hair, figure, makeup. Even the look on her face is the perfect mix of warm but serious, gentle but strong.
“Welcome, Seeker Hallie,” she says, placing her hand on my left shoulder. I stand frozen, speechless. It’s like a greeting you’d receive from a martian. I suppose I should be used to people I’ve never met knowing my name around here, but it still creeps me out.
The woman moves her hand from my shoulder to Ivy’s. “Welcome, Seeker Ivy.”
She dismisses us with a nod.
“Awkward,” Ivy half-sings, half-whispers.
A student about the same age as Heather hands us each a slip of paper. She doesn’t utter a sound, just smiles and nods. It’s like they have a whole other language here.
I look down at the paper. Row 6, Seat 21.
I glance down at Ivy’s. Same row, seat 22. Finally some good luck.
We sit in the top row of polished wooden benches, almost near the aisle. From where we’re sitting, we can see the triangular stage in the center of the room perfectly. The candlelit room fills slowly.
Kendall and Zena are sitting almost directly across from us in the circle. Zena looks like Kendall’s complete opposite. Different hair color, eye color, even the coloring of their skin is different. But everything else about them is eerily similar. Same snarky smile, same judgmental eyes. Familiar insecurity squeezes my empty stomach.
“Weird how that woman knew our names, right?” Ivy whispers.
“And what was with the hand on the shoulder? I half-expected her to say ‘May the force be with you.’ ”
Ivy giggles quietly, and I let my body relax just a bit. Rooming with Kendall is not what I wanted, but at least Ivy seems normal. Well, as normal as a preteen witch can be.
Nearly every seat on the top row is filled when Miss A enters the room and sits in one of six chairs on the triangular stage. Silence follows, as if everyone in the room instinctively knows something is about to happen.
