Page 2 of Practically Witches

She quiets down but comes toward me, squeezing my biceps in her hands. Her nails dig into my skin, and I pull away. “What’s wrong, RJ? You did it!”

Yeah, I did it. I did it because she was standing right beside me, her presence, her confidence in me feeding my magic. That’s the only explanation I can think of.

“Try it again.” This time she pulls a tube of lipstick from her pocket and writesclean meon the napkin.

The stairwell to the loft is in what I call a noise tunnel. The slightest creak of the hinges on the door below isamplified by the close walls and short angled ceiling so that it sounds like a cannon going off through the tunnel. Then there’s a door at the top of the stairs that leads to the loft itself.

The loft is mostly just old junk accumulated by generations of our family living in a house since it was built. Mom calls them heirlooms, but it is mostly junk.

Things like a couple old sewing machines that need refurbished. The mannequin I’m sure was used by the family sewer—whoever he or she was. A baby cradle that may have been mine, or Aimee’s, or belonged to a hundred other family kids before us. Some old trunks full of antique clothes and blankets that even the moths didn’t care to eat. And photo albums.

Of course, we found the grimoire up here, so the place isn’t all useless antiquities. But it gives us a dedicated area to work and practice, and with our final witch exam coming up, it’s ever more important that we do so.

How am I in Aimee’s classes even though I’m younger? Well, it’s not because I’m some spellcasting genius, that’s for sure.

It’s because of connections, biases, and maybe a bit of nepotism.

Since Mom has history with the Institute, I was allowed to start classes at the same time as Aimee. So I’m younger than everyone else here, my magic lacking in areas, but my sister tries her best to help me stay afloat.

Before Aimee’s finished laying the napkin out a second time for me to clean it, the hinges below squeal and Mom’s footsteps pound up the stairs.

Aimee panics. She stuffs the napkin down her shirt so it looks like she’s grown a third boob, and she slides the grimoire onto the seat of her chair, instead of simplyopening the cabinet and stuffing the napkin in the grimoire and the grimoire in the cabinet. She’s making things more complicated than they have to be, but I don’t have time to tell her before Mom reaches the top step.

By the time the door swings open, we’re holding our bedazzled oven mitts and Mom’s eyes widen and her smile spreads across her face. She’s one of those women who gushes about her kids, the kind of woman who brags about her girls when she’s with her friends. Aimee, as the good one, always makes sure she has something to gush about. Because she’s the better of us, she also makes sure that Mom’s bragging includes me. Lying to Mom is killing her.

Mom walks in. The trust she has in us built up over years is shining in her eyes. “Those are gorgeous.” So the gushing begins. “So much attention to detail!” She turns one over in her hands, inspecting the details. “This is some fine craftsmanship girls.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I murmur when Aimee doesn’t look up. I would roll my eyes at her guilt complex, but it would make her feel worse and I don’t know that I’ll be able to work her through it if she slips any deeper into it.

“You could sell these on eBay or Etsy.” She holds mine up and slides her hand in then holds her arm at a forty-five-degree angle and twists it back and forth, letting the silver rhinestones catch the light. “But won’t the rhinestones fall off in the heat of the pans?”

She has a point. And I don’t know how to counter that more than to say, “They’re for decoration.” Obviously.

The smile she flashes isn’t theRJ is about to have a tantrumone she sometimes has no choice but to use. It’s genuine. A for-Aimee smile.

I don’t sigh out loud, but my soul is sighing down deep.

“I’m so proud of you girls.” She hugs Aimee, who is one gush away from cracking under the pressure.

“Thanks, Mom.” I say it loud enough to snap Aimee out of her guilty trance. She wants the grimoire magic as much as I do. She just isn’t as sure about lying to Mom as I am yet. But she will be when she realizes that the grimoire is going to be the thing that takes us to the next level.

“I won’t bother you, then. You girls seem busy.” Mom backs out of the room, eyes trained on us but a smile plastered on her face, and shuts the door.

“That was close,” I say, but I chuckle.

Aimee nods. “Yeah. Let’s get to it before she comes back.”

Our final exam is coming up. We’re fifth-year students at the Institute for the Arts and Sciences of Magic. But if we don’t pass the final exam, there are no do-overs. No second chances.

I’m okay at potions. Mostly. I follow the grimoire, the same as Aimee, but when I practice without her, it never goes well. Once, the potion bubbles ate the swoosh right off my running shoes.

I don’t know why I can’t work spells and potions at will.

“Maybe we should find some of the others to study with, RJ. Maybe they can see something I can’t.” I know that she’s trying to be helpful. She wants me to pass as badly as I want to because Aimee is a person who genuinely cares about others.

But I don’t want anyone to see me struggle, and I sure don’t want to fail in front of anyone who isn’t required to love me.

“Maybe.” I hate this.

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