Read Online Kelly McClymer-Salem Witch 01 The Salem Witch Tryouts by Kelly McClymer - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kelly McClymer
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alone—which would have been tricky since I didn’t see any extra chairs—I noticed the perfect group. Two girls and a guy.
They weren’t scuds (the lowest of the low in any school, even a witch school, I’m sure). But they weren’t even remotely kewl. Fringies, no doubt. The kids who deliberately didn’t belong to any group, including the one to which they’d naturally belong. My old high school had had its share of fringies. I’d even had one as my lab partner in freshman biology. Doria had been very sweet, very good at taking lab notes, but she hadn’t had a clue that she was a fringie by dint of her thick glasses and her habit of walking away without explanation halfway through a conversation. She wasn’t a nerd or a geek, she just sorta floated along without any one group.
Speaking of nerds and geeks, the guy at the table I was thinking of crashing was wearing these weird glasses that had three lenses-green, red, and yellow—one on top of each other. I’m not sure what kept him—or the girls he was with—fromfalling over the line from fringie into scud territory, but I trusted my instincts. I had to—they were all I had right now.
Anyway, these three seemed harmless and potentially helpful. That was the great thing about fringies. They were just openly curious in an accepting way. They’d talk to anybody without any thought of personal rep. Perfect for a first day lunch that should net me the scoop on my fellow students.
“Mind if I sit here?” I didn’t see a chair, but I figured I could deal with that if they agreed.
“You’re the new girl.” The chubby girl, who was sitting next to the boy with the glasses, smiled as she said it, no nastiness intended. “I’m Maria.” She raised her chili dog and took a bite without answering me. Yep. Definitely a fringie.
The other girl, who was skinny and pretty enough to be sitting at the kewl table if she hadn’t been wearing a dress that looked like it was made out of a potato sack, just smiled at me faintly, as if she was trying to look past me without being completely rude.
Clearly not an invitation to sit yet. I felt like everyone’s hot little eyes were on me, but there is a lot of truth to the saying my mom likes that goes “If you knew how little people thought of you, you’d be shocked.” Or something like that.
The boy took a sip of his soda and fiddled with his glasses for a minute before he said, “Is it true you were raised in the mortal realm? That you went to a mortal school?”
“Yes.” Was that a good thing or a bad thing? All I knew was that it was true.
Apparently the truth can set us free. Sometimes. A chair appeared in front of me. Duh. Magic lunchroom means magic chairs. I grabbed it and sat for a moment, unsure what to do about the actual eating part of lunch.
I could probably conjure up a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Or maybe a hot dog like the two girls were having—with mustard and onions. Probably. But I’d rather have what the boy with the weird glasses sitting across from me was having. It looked like a curry. I love curry.
Trying to look like I was just making conversation and not fatally interested, I asked, “Is that from the menu? It looks good. Where’s the kitchen here?”
“Curried chicken and peanuts.” He didn’t sound friendly, but he didn’t sound unfriendly, either. I decided to take it as a good sign.
“Looks good.”
“Zap yourself up some.”
From a few tables away, in a sea of anonymous faces, someone yelled, “She can’t. She’s waiting for someone to cook it for her, like they do in the mortal realm.” I couldn’t see who’d said it, but the voice was familiar. AnonymousBoy from remedial spells. Was this guy going to haunt me for the rest of my life? What a worm. Maybe I’d have to ask Dorklock how to get rid of a pest.
I did what any self-respecting girl does: I pretended he didn’t exist.
“You don’t know how to use magic?” Curry Boy suddenly looked
They weren’t scuds (the lowest of the low in any school, even a witch school, I’m sure). But they weren’t even remotely kewl. Fringies, no doubt. The kids who deliberately didn’t belong to any group, including the one to which they’d naturally belong. My old high school had had its share of fringies. I’d even had one as my lab partner in freshman biology. Doria had been very sweet, very good at taking lab notes, but she hadn’t had a clue that she was a fringie by dint of her thick glasses and her habit of walking away without explanation halfway through a conversation. She wasn’t a nerd or a geek, she just sorta floated along without any one group.
Speaking of nerds and geeks, the guy at the table I was thinking of crashing was wearing these weird glasses that had three lenses-green, red, and yellow—one on top of each other. I’m not sure what kept him—or the girls he was with—fromfalling over the line from fringie into scud territory, but I trusted my instincts. I had to—they were all I had right now.
Anyway, these three seemed harmless and potentially helpful. That was the great thing about fringies. They were just openly curious in an accepting way. They’d talk to anybody without any thought of personal rep. Perfect for a first day lunch that should net me the scoop on my fellow students.
“Mind if I sit here?” I didn’t see a chair, but I figured I could deal with that if they agreed.
“You’re the new girl.” The chubby girl, who was sitting next to the boy with the glasses, smiled as she said it, no nastiness intended. “I’m Maria.” She raised her chili dog and took a bite without answering me. Yep. Definitely a fringie.
The other girl, who was skinny and pretty enough to be sitting at the kewl table if she hadn’t been wearing a dress that looked like it was made out of a potato sack, just smiled at me faintly, as if she was trying to look past me without being completely rude.
Clearly not an invitation to sit yet. I felt like everyone’s hot little eyes were on me, but there is a lot of truth to the saying my mom likes that goes “If you knew how little people thought of you, you’d be shocked.” Or something like that.
The boy took a sip of his soda and fiddled with his glasses for a minute before he said, “Is it true you were raised in the mortal realm? That you went to a mortal school?”
“Yes.” Was that a good thing or a bad thing? All I knew was that it was true.
Apparently the truth can set us free. Sometimes. A chair appeared in front of me. Duh. Magic lunchroom means magic chairs. I grabbed it and sat for a moment, unsure what to do about the actual eating part of lunch.
I could probably conjure up a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Or maybe a hot dog like the two girls were having—with mustard and onions. Probably. But I’d rather have what the boy with the weird glasses sitting across from me was having. It looked like a curry. I love curry.
Trying to look like I was just making conversation and not fatally interested, I asked, “Is that from the menu? It looks good. Where’s the kitchen here?”
“Curried chicken and peanuts.” He didn’t sound friendly, but he didn’t sound unfriendly, either. I decided to take it as a good sign.
“Looks good.”
“Zap yourself up some.”
From a few tables away, in a sea of anonymous faces, someone yelled, “She can’t. She’s waiting for someone to cook it for her, like they do in the mortal realm.” I couldn’t see who’d said it, but the voice was familiar. AnonymousBoy from remedial spells. Was this guy going to haunt me for the rest of my life? What a worm. Maybe I’d have to ask Dorklock how to get rid of a pest.
I did what any self-respecting girl does: I pretended he didn’t exist.
“You don’t know how to use magic?” Curry Boy suddenly looked
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