Page 4 of Practically Witches

And because I’m not thinking about getting caught, I’m not as careful. I don’t hush the sound of the cabinet door as I open it to retrieve the napkin. And I almost don’t bother with the grimoire, but after so many missteps, I don’t trust myself, so I open the panel not half as quietly as I should and pull the ancient book—it looks ancient, anyway—from its hiding place.

The leather cover is scarred and the pages are brittle and yellow. But it’s handwritten with drawn pictures and pressed leaves, flower petals and parts crossed through. We haven’t made it all the way to the end, but we’re trying different parts because my final in my practical applications class has to be something useful to the home. Aimee and I chose the cleaning spell we found in the book, partly for its simplicity and partly for its real world uses. And I’ve already submitted it to our professor for trial.

After I lay out the napkin, I flip to our page. It’s marked by a long slim blue ribbon. The words aren’t English. I suspect they’re Romani, and when Aimee pronounced themas written, they worked, so I close my eyes, finding my focus, then imitate the way she said them.

After I speak the last syllable, for a second, nothing happens. But then the cabinet starts to shake and the book slides to the floor with a loud thud. And then, while I’m being very still, looking left and right—and unless she’s gone deaf, there’s no way she missed the sound of the book falling—the napkin spontaneously bursts into flame. “Shit!”

I try to grab it, but a sudden and mysterious breeze in the attic carries it away and with it, the flames. There are old things in this place. Old, brittle, and probably flammable things. I can’t let the house burn down.

But magic is unpredictable. At least, it is when I do it. So I have to dive to catch the still flaming napkin, and I thud onto the floor beside the book, miss the napkin completely and the fucking thing is floating, undisturbed, still burning.

Then, because Mom is a conscientious homeowner and has two smoke detectors on every floor, both the alarms in the loft sound.

I plug my ears and look at the still burning napkin. This has got to be some kind of trick. It should be nothing more than ash by now, but it’s some sort of poly/flame retardant blend and flames are dancing on the surface, burning the poly off but the retardant part lives on.

As the alarm continues blaring, Mom bursts into the room, and I don’t know what exactly she sees, but the napkin is floating like it’s on wires that cross from one side of the loft to the other. The book pages are flipping open and closed as it rumbles on the floor as though we’re in the middle of an earthquake, and I’m flopping across the splintery hardwood, chasing the grimoire like I actually have a chance to catch it, like it isn’t hopped up on magic.

Mom waves her hand in the air and the fire dies, the book stops, the alarms silence, and I look up at her. “Thanks?”

“Stand up, Robbie Joe.” Sometimes, usually when she’s pissed, she calls me by the name she’d given me when I was born.Robbieafter my dad andJoebecause she thought if she put two boy names together, it wouldn’t sound so masculine on her girl. Her “two negatives equals a positive” logic didn’t translate to baby naming so she’d shortened my name to initials. Except when she’s pissed off.

Like now.

I come up off the ground with the grimoire in my hand. In my defense, when I realize it, I move my arms to hide it behind my back.

“Seriously?” She holds out her hand, flexing her fingers. “Hand it over, Robbie Joe.”

Twice. She’s bypassed the initials twice now. That she’s so in control of her magic is impressive, though. Once, when we were young—I was maybe ten and Aimee was twelve—Aimee got spitfire mad at me. Literally. Her natural magic welled inside of her. She said it felt like a tornado, and she didn’t mean to let it out, but she did, in fact, spit fire and a wall of magic knocked me flat on my back. It held me there until Mom saved me.

Mom’s control is tighter than Aimee’s, but her voice is burning with anger. She’s holding the book in one hand with far less reverence than Aimee and I have for the book. “Do you have any idea how dangerous it is to dabble in magic you don’t understand?” She shakes her head. “And unsanctioned magic will get you kicked out of the Institute.”

This isn’t headline news. I’m well aware of the rules at the Institute.

“We understand it, Mom. And we aren’t dabbling.” Technically,wearen’t doing anything. Somehow, I don’t think she’ll appreciate that observation, and any other day I would tell her that Aimee is innocent, but today I’m not saying anything to defend Aimee. If she was here, I would’ve never been caught.

“So you meant to set the house on fire?” Her tone cracks and the real anger is simmering close to the skin, ready to boil over.

“No! Of course not.” What kind of question is that?

“You’re reckless, Robbie Joe. And you don’t think before you act. It’s not just me you’re hurting, you know. It’s your sister, too. Do you see that?” She’s not only angry. She’s disappointed. After the last nineteen years, it’s one of her tones that I’m more than familiar with so I recognize it right away.

“I would never hurt Aimee.” And I don’t care for the implication, so my tone is icy, hard even.

If she notices, Mom ignores it. “But you do. Every time you drag her into one of your schemes.”

One of my schemes?Aimeefound the book.She’dfound the cleaning spell.Shewrote the card for me to give to Professor Alex. But aside from my mother never believing it if I deigned to say it, I’m not the kind of sister who would snitch.

Although, I would say I’m sorry if I thought it would do any good. But I’ve tried it before. She always says it’s just lip service. Instead, I sigh, and it’s as petulant as I dare get when she’s this keyed up.

“You know you’re not supposed to practice magic—any magic—outside of the Institute, too, RJ. Agreements were signed. Promises were made. Does your word mean nothing?” These are rhetorical. I want to tell her that I’m doingthis for a reason and that my word means everything to me. But I have to pass. Being a witch is all I know. I can’t fail now.

I want to explain it all to her, but I can’t. I don’t think I can bear more of her disappointment. As a daughter it’s one thing. Maybe the shame is even a choice I make by what I do. But as a witch without skill? That’s a whole other level of humiliation that my mother will never understand.

“It’s bad enough you’re jeopardizing your own future, but now you’re also jeopardizing Aimee’s. It’s selfish is what it is.” She stamps her foot. I have to give her the anger, or at least the right to it. I almost burned the house down, and I broke the rules of the Institute.

“I’m sorry.” It’s the absolute least I can say. I could explain, but it won’t make a difference, and I really don’t want to tell her the troubles I’ve been having. She’s angry. I’ve done wrong. Nothing else matters.

“You’re grounded.”

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