The XYZs of Being Wicked Read online

  For my sisters, who inspire me every day with their strength, wit, and compassion

  Acknowledgments

  No book makes it to the shelves without an entire cast of behind-the-scenes characters!

  I must begin with my agent, Holly Root. You have blessed my life with your intelligence, wit, and razor-sharp business sense. Without you, I’d still be entering contests and praying for a break! Thank you for always believing in me.

  A huge thanks to my editor at Aladdin, Alyson Heller, for falling in love with Hallie and the gang. You made XYZs the amazing book that it is and me a better writer. A million thanks wouldn’t be enough!

  My precious kids, Caleb and Laney . . . you are the reason I was put on this crazy planet. Thank you for making every day worth living and for loving me, faults and all!

  Bill, someone once called me a wordsmith, which is ironic because I can’t think of a proper way to thank you here. You restored my faith in love and in myself. I will spend forever loving you every bit as much as you love me.

  To my parents . . . neither of you ever held one of my books, but don’t think for a minute I didn’t hear you in my head when I was stuck on a scene or doubting my writing ability. I love you and miss you more every single day.

  Whoa! I can’t forget a shout-out to my Suh-weet Success Sisters—Alex Ratcliff, Kimberle Swaak, Diane Wied, Koreen Gonzales, and the crazy-talented Margie Lawson. Thank you for critiquing honestly and cheering endlessly, both on and off the mountain. I seriously couldn’t have written this book without you.

  And finally, to my readers . . . thank you for picking up this book and spending some time with Hallie. I hope she taught you to believe in yourself, work hard, and stay focused. And don’t forget to laugh a lot along the way. Life’s short—live without regrets!

  Dowling Academy

  P.O. Box 12

  Cobb, Texas 78601

  Dear Miss Hallie Simon,

  It’s my honor to welcome you to the Dowling Academy School of Witchcraft. Dowling admits young girls like yourself based exclusively on your Wiccan lineage.

  You are certain to have many questions, some of which will be answered when you move in on September 2nd. Please plan to arrive promptly between 3:00 p.m. and 4:00 p.m. You will be signed in, shown to your dorm, and introduced to your roommate and dorm mother. Please note the following strict packing guidelines.

  • Pack all belongings in your family trunk and the enclosed duffel bag. No additional luggage will be permitted.

  • For your arrival please wear blue jeans and the enclosed red polo with the Dowling Academy insignia. White tennis shoes are required. Your school uniform will be provided upon your arrival.

  • Seekers are not allowed access to Internet technology, including cell phones. Please do not bring one with you.

  • MP3 players are permitted if used responsibly.

  • Cosmetics should not be packed. That privilege is not given to Seekers.

  • Bedding will be provided.

  • Decorating your room is permitted, within reason.

  On behalf of our prestigious staff, current students, and extended family of supporters, I welcome you to the Dowling Academy sisterhood. Your legacy awaits you.

  Regards,

  Headmistress Veronica Fallon

  P.S. As a direct descendent of Dowling’s finest hedge witch, your great-great-grandmother, Elsa Whittier Simon, it is your karama, your life’s purpose, to follow in her extraordinary footsteps. As a hedge witch, your ability to be a healer and your deep love and understanding of nature make you a critical link in the Dowling Coven. Your attendance at Dowling will ensure the survival of your family’s Wiccan heritage.

  One

  Mom’s voice is clipped and irritated when she taps her watch. “Tick tock, Hallie.”

  I keep my eyes on the television. “When this is over.”

  The television clicks off, and I huff out a big breath. I hate it when she does that.

  “I’m not packing for you, no matter how long you put it off.”

  I lie down on the couch and groan. “I’ll do it later. Who knows when I’ll get to see my shows again.”

  “One, two . . .”

  “Really? You’re counting? I’m eleven, Mom. Not five.”

  She grabs my legs and drops them to the floor. “Now.”

  Moving more slowly than honey in a snowstorm, I drag myself to the attic door.

  I hate attics. And basements. They’re the soulless pits of a house, and I have no use for either one of them. Except today. Today, I have to climb into the attic. It doesn’t matter that the last time I was in the attic, I fell and landed face-first in the biggest spiderweb any spider has ever created in the history of the world.

  I’m on my third jump to reach the cord hanging from the attic door when Dad appears. He drops a step ladder in front of me. “The definition of ‘insanity’ is doing the same thing and—”

  “Expecting different results,” I finish. Dad’s a total quote junkie. This particular Einstein quote has been repeated in my house so many times, I have it memorized.

  I take two steps on the small ladder, grab the cord, and pull it down.

  “Packing? Already?” he teases, knowing Mom’s been nagging me for a week to pack.

  “Funny, Dad.” I give him a smile, and my heart pinches. I’m going to miss him. I’m going to miss Mom. I’m going to miss my dog, Charlie. The only thing I won’t miss is the heartless Kendall Scott, who has made it her personal mission in life to ensure I never rise above the level of social scum at school.

  Dad rubs his hands together like he’s warming them over a fire. “Exciting stuff, Hallie.”

  A flame of panic spreads through my stomach. I douse it with the reminder that I’m starting over in a new school with new kids. Dowling’s my do-over.

  I look up the attic stairs, then back at him. He knows how I feel about attics.“Want me to turn the light on?” Without waiting for me to answer, he climbs the stairs, yanks the light cord, and comes back down. “It’s all yours.”

  Watching Dad walk off, I wish I’d asked him to go up with me. I grab the handle of the folding stairs that lead to the attic and gently place my foot on the first step. It creaks lightly under my weight.

  You’re being ridiculous, Hallie Faith Simon. Climb the steps, clean out the trunk, pack, and be done with it.

  I hold my breath and take the rest of the steps quickly, exhaling when I reach the top. The attic is as musty and menacing as I remember.

  I scan the neatly stacked boxes, plastic tubs, and plywood walking paths. I place one foot on the wood to test its strength, then gingerly walk the plank. The trunk is exactly where Mom said it would be—under the window, covered in dust, daring me to open it.

  I drop to my knees and blow on the top of the trunk. Even after I open the window, the dust hangs in the air and I have to wave my hands in front of me to see better. Putting my hand on the metal latch, I close my eyes, and quickly lift the lid. When nothing jumps out and kills me, I peek through one eye to examine the trunk. Seems safe enough, so I dare to open both eyes. Carved on the inside of the lid is something I can’t read. I trace my fingers over the cursive letters and try to pronounce the words.

  Delicias fuge ne frangaris crimine, verum

  Coelica tu quaeras, ne male dipereas;

  Respicias tua, non cujusvis quaerito gesta

  Carpere, sed laudes, nec preme veridicos;

  Judicio fore te praesentem conspice toto.

  Anxiety swims through me. I may not be able to read it, but I know these words will be important in my new world. Engraved below that are words I can actually read.

  SIMON FAMILY TRUNK

  DOWLING ACADEM
Y SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT, Est. 1521

  More curious than afraid, I peer into the trunk. Part of me hopes there’s a copy of Witchcraft for Dummies inside, but all I find are two weird things that look like they belong in a museum.

  A small stick that looks like a miniature totem pole leans in the corner of the trunk. Again I blow the dust off and lean in for a closer look. But I can’t see it the way I want and slowly slip my hand into the trunk. I grab the stick and pull it out quickly, like rattlers are threatening to strike. When lightning doesn’t fry me, I let out the breath I’ve been holding. Call me crazy, but digging in a dead witch’s trunk puts this girl on edge.

  The stick is so light, I can barely feel it in my hands as I hold it up to the sunlight. Symbols I don’t recognize are carved into the stick, and instead of totally creeping me out, it calms me. I can’t explain it, but something like relief washes over me.

  I put the stick back into the trunk, and, braver than I thought possible, I grab the only other item in the trunk. A book of yellowed pages with an S embossed in the center fills my hands. I wipe the black leather cover and let my finger trace the S. Is the S for “Simon”?

  Gently I open the cover and read the inscription.

  This Book of Shadows Belongs to Elsa Whittier Simon.

  I grin at the small angry letters scribbled at the bottom.

  HANDS OFF!

  I don’t make friends easily, but I think I would have liked my great-great-grandmother.

  I reread the inscription. Book of Shadows. Another part of my new life I know nothing about. Thumbing through the pages filled with perfect cursive handwriting, I stop at a dog-eared page.

  Hear us now, the words of the witches,

  The secrets we hide in the night.

  Our magic is sought,

  Invoke our power,

  In this hour,

  On this night.

  I whisper the words as I read them, over and over again.

  “Hal?”

  The sound of my mother’s voice behind me stops my heart for a full second. I whip my head around, but before I can tell her how badly she scared me, wind swirls inside the attic, first soft and refreshing. Then churning faster and faster and faster, like an angry tornado. Boxes, papers, and pieces of insulation hurl through the room so fiercely, I can barely hold my place on the floor. I clutch the Book of Shadows to my chest to keep from losing it.

  I attempt to scream through the storm. “Mom!”

  The trunk seems to be the only thing not flying through the room, so I grab it in a death grip.

  There’s no reply from Mom, and I’ve lost sight of her in the storm debris.

  My glasses begin sliding from my face, and I drop the Book of Shadows to hold them in place.

  In that instant the room stills.

  My eyes dart through the room, taking in the attic, the attic that should be filled with trash but looks exactly as it did when I first climbed the stairs.

  Hand still clamped on the trunk, I take a shaky breath. What in the world just happened? Did I imagine it?

  When I finally lock eyes with Mom, her body is frozen in fear.

  No. I did not imagine this. What just happened scared her even more than it terrified me, and I remind myself that she’s as new to this as I am.

  “What— Did you— How . . .” She stutters over her words, trying to make sense of the bizarro scene. All the relief I felt just moments ago has evaporated, and in its place is sheer panic.

  I can’t do this.

  I can’t do this.

  I can’t be a witch.

  But a voice thunders in my head. I have to do this.

  I toss the book into the trunk and shut the lid before dragging the piece of luggage closer to Mom. I need to get out of here and immediately pretend none of it happened, pretend I didn’t cause the storm, and pretend I’m not going to a school for witches.

  “See?” I say. “Didn’t I tell you? Nothing good happens in attics.”

  Two

  Standing in the registration line at Dowling, I struggle to keep a sweaty grip on my side of the family trunk. Dad’s holding the other side, shoulders back, chest out, pride spewing out of him like an erupting volcano.

  I grow more anxious as each minute passes. I was flabbergasted when my parents told me about Dowling and why I had to go. How could I have been a witch my whole life and never known? Dad’s explanation involving lineage and some great-great-grandmother I never met made little sense. But I knew he was telling the truth. And I knew I had to go, no matter how badly I wanted to stay in my safe, predictable world.

  There’s only one girl in front of us. Like me, she’s in jeans, a red polo, and white shoes. Like me, she’s white-knuckling one end of her family trunk, pretending there’s nowhere else she’d rather be.

  Finished signing in, the family follows an older Dowling student down a wide hallway. I steel myself for the reality that my parents are about to walk me to my dorm. Then leave. For good.

  I trudge up to the table and come face-to-face with a plump woman with a bright smile and curly hair so dry, it looks like it could catch fire at any moment. I make a mental note of the name on her ID badge. Agnes Armstrong.

  I take her in. Mascara is caked in globs on her short, stumpy eyelashes, and the deep red lipstick smeared across her lips has smudged onto her teeth. It’s kind of a mess but somehow seems right on her.

  “Well, hello there!” she says. “What’s your name, sugar?”

  I pull my eyes from her red-stained choppers. “Hallie. Hallie Simon.”

  Her eyes brighten and she raises her hand in the air. I just stare at it, confused. Surely she isn’t trying to high-five me.

  “You’re one of my girls!” she announces, bouncing in her seat.

  Since I have no idea what it means to be one of her girls, I just smile.

  She waves her hand closer to me. “Well, don’t leave me hanging.”

  I tap my hand to hers, quick as I can. In my old school, public high-fiving is a one-way ticket to merciless mocking.

  “What does it mean, exactly, when you say Hallie is one of your girls?” Mom puts her hand on my shoulder, pulling me closer.

  Miss Armstrong slaps her hands to her chest. “Where are my manners! I just get so excited when I meet my girls for the first time.” She focuses her attention on me. “I’m your dorm mother, sweetie. I’ll be your mom away from home.”

  Mom’s hand tightens on my shoulder.

  “If you’re sick,” she says, “I’ll be the one to give you that TLC. Although . . .” Her brows draw together like she’s realizing something for the first time. “I can’t recall the last time a student fell ill at Dowling. Hmm. Curious.”

  “Excellent to hear.” Dad shoots his hand in front of him. I brace myself for his booming salesman voice. “Phil Simon.”

  I cringe, waiting for Miss Armstrong’s reaction.

  “Well, now, isn’t that a nice howdy-do!” she says, pumping his hand firmly. “Agnes Armstrong,” she answers, the tone of her voice mimicking Dad’s. She shifts her focus back to me. “But you can call me Miss A. All the girls do.”

  Miss A passes Mom a business card. “Now, I don’t want you to worry about a thing. You can reach me anytime, night or day. Just call that number, and whatever you do, don’t forget the code. I can’t talk to you unless you have the code, even if I recognize your voice.” She shakes her head abruptly. “No exceptions.”

  “What’s the code?” Panic makes Mom’s voice a little louder, a little more forceful, than usual.

  “It’s printed in the bottom right-hand corner. See it?”

  I lean closer and see the small series of letters and numbers that seem to squirm and shift on the paper. The harder I look at the numbers, the more they seem to morph, to change. An 8 turns into an S and a T turns into a 7.

  “Yeah, I see it.” Mom looks at me, her face a jumbled mess of worry, confusion, and run-for-your-life fear.

  “Now, let’s see here,” Mi
ss A says, dragging a stubby finger down a sheet of blank paper in front of her. I shift so I can get a better look at the paper, but no matter which direction I move, the paper remains blank. If it is blank, what in the world is she looking at?

  “Nope! Your roommate hasn’t arrived yet. But I’m sure she’ll be here lickety-split.”

  She grabs a large white envelope from a box beside her chair. She slides her hand across the envelope, and my name appears in perfect, fancy handwriting.

  Or was it already there? Maybe I need new glasses.

  “Here you go, Hallie. You don’t want to lose this, so take special care that you don’t misplace it when you unpack. It includes your daily schedule and, most important, the dining hall schedule. Be sure you make it for meals. After hours the kitchen is locked up tighter than Alcatraz.”

  “There will be plenty of choices for her, correct?” Mom asks.

  “She’s vegetarian,” Dad adds, lowering his voice to a whisper. He hates that I’m vegetarian. He doesn’t understand how anyone can survive without meat. Maybe it’s my hedge witch ancestry, but I have a thing for organically grown vegetables. It’s one of the many things Kendall used to tease me about.

  Miss A gives a double thumbs-up. “Yes, ma’am!”

  She hands me a beaded lanyard that reminds me of the necklace I got when we visited an Indian reservation in Louisiana. No two stones are the same, and they have a tribal look to them.

  Hanging from the lanyard is an ID card. Dead center is a picture of me I’ve never seen, wearing the exact same shirt I’m wearing now. I mentally backtrack through the last few months. Did I try this shirt on before today? Did Mom take my picture? I know that I know that I know . . . I didn’t put this shirt on before today. So that means they took this picture . . . today? How? When? And how’d it get on my badge so quickly?

  Miss A leans forward and puts the lanyard around my neck. “Don’t even think about walking out of your room without this. It’s your key to everything—your room, the dining hall, the commissary, and your classes.”

  She’s odd and kind of hard to take seriously, but I already like my dorm mother. I was terrified a controlling, power-hungry shrew would be in charge of my life. Miss A is the complete opposite of that nightmare.