Page 5 of Practically Witches

“What? Grounded? Are you kidding me right now?” I’m old enough to move out. Old enough to vote. Don’t have the money to move out. Don’t have the knowledge to vote. But definitely too old to be grounded.

“You live in my house.” Of course, it always comes back to this. Her house. Her rules.

“And I’m grounded?” It sounds ridiculous to say. Twelve-year-olds get grounded. She nods and crosses her arms. “So I can buy a lottery ticket, play a slot machine, get into a—” I almost sayclub, “R-rated movie, but I’m grounded?”

“That’s right.” She nods as if she’s proud, and she’s still holding the grimoire when she turns and marches down the stairs.

Grounded. It’s such a ridiculous concept. And she took the fucking book. Aimee is going to be pissed.

But there are things my mother said that make sense. Maybe I am holding Aimee back. Not that Mom said that but it’s the gist. Or maybe that’s just my personal feelings on the subject.

Certainly, I’m a liability to my sister. Obviously. She has magic I don’t have. Or at least she’s better at magic than I am. And that means…something. And it isn’t good. Also obviously.

If we don’t talk about the past and only concentrate on today, I’ve almost set the house on fire and now Mom has the grimoire so I’m a liability to myself, too.

It’s a lot to think about. Fortunately, since I’m grounded—at nineteen—I’ll have plenty of time to do just that.

Chapter

Three

When Aimee comes home, Mom is fixing dinner and I’m in my room, lying on my bed, staring up at the ceiling. I hear them chatting but can’t make out the words and I don’t care what they’re talking about. Although I have guesses.

Mom’s probably telling Aimee that I almost set the house on fire, that I was hiding the super-secret magic book, and that I’m grounded, although we didn’t really discuss for how long, so for all I know I’m free right now. And Aimee’s probably being the sympathetic suck-up I know she is with Mom. I don’t care about that either.

For all I know, she could’ve meant grounded until she cooled off. Until she stopped slamming pots and pans. Until she stopped speaking in hushed tones into her cell. Which could still be a while, but who knows? She’s acting ridiculous.

I know because this isn’t my first go-round with my mother, that she didn’t mean it any of the ways other than grounded until she tells me otherwise, but she wasn’t specific. And she’s probably going to use a binding spell tokeep me in the house. I sigh. It doesn’t matter. I don’t really have anywhere to go.

It’s not long until Aimee knocks on my bedroom door. It’s open so I don’t bother telling her to come in. She already is.

“Bad day, huh?”

“On so many levels,” I say with a shrug. “I must’ve said the spell wrong. Started a fire.”

Aimee nods. “Yeah. Mom said.”

“And she took the grimoire.”

Aimee doesn’t need it. She’s in Advanced Spell Creation, a class that requires you not only write your own spells, but prove they work by casting them. They’re training her so that she could create a grimoire of her own, so she has the training to form a coven and lead. There are only a few students in that class. I didn’t make the cut.

“We can work around it.” She’s always so confident about magic. I’m not.

Although, this is the part where I shine. I do for self-proclaimed martyrdom what music does for silence. I make it louder and all about me. “No. Mom’s right. I’m dragging you down, Aims.”

She rolls her purple eyes and pretends she’s choking. “Shut up. We’ll figure out how to get you practice.” She sighs. There’s a perfectly legit way for me to get practice and we both know it, but I’m prideful. Too prideful. I can’t stand the idea of anyone knowing I’m inadequate, that my skills shame the well-respected family name.

Aimee has a future. She’s at the top of our class and the magic she commands is twice as powerful as anyone else in school. She needs the space to grow. I’m holding her back. She can’t grow if she’s always being forced to cover for me, to worry about me to the detriment of her own studies.

“So, you and Mom had it out, huh?” She sits on my bed and I sit up and nod. “She’ll get over it. She probably just saw the flames and freaked out.” She pauses. “Did the stain come out?”

I shake my head. “Don’t wear that lipstick around an open flame.”

She fakes a laugh. “It’s your lipstick.”

Of course, it is. She doesn’t need makeup. She’s naturally pretty. I have to work to be passable. Her hair is the color of moon rays, and her eyes are the kind of violet that makes boys want to love her—even though she’s horrible around them.

I am mousier. Brown hair. Brown eyes. I’m a tomboy. She’s a cover girl. I’m not jealous, it’s just who we are. I’m the one who’s confident. She’s…not.

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