Page 6 of Practically Witches

“Well, then it’s always near an open flame because I’m on fire.” I do the shoulder head-swirl combo, and she laughs.

When she stops, she looks at me and asks, “What are you going to do about Mom?”

That is the question, isn’t it? I shrug. “I don’t know. Wait until she cools off. Try to talk to her.” It isn’t like she can hate me forever. She’s my mother. “Right now, I’m going to go for a walk.”

“RJ,groundedmeans you stare at the four walls. It means you don’t go anywhere or do anything.” As if I am unaware of the situation. I spent most of the years from fourteen to eighteen—nineteen now—grounded. I’m aware of the concept.

“Oh, that’s how it is?” I give her the head-shake sniff combo that is one my personal favorite moves. “How would you know?” She’s never been grounded a day in her life.

Her smirk is of the all-knowing kind and I would roll myeyes at her if I thought she would understand why I was doing it. Instead, I don’t bother, and she keeps talking. “I’ve heard Mom say it before.”

I smile. “What Mom doesn’t know won’t extend the period of time I’m grounded.” I put my finger to my lips and shush her. “Just tell her I’ve gone to bed. She won’t check.”

I slide the window up and climb out onto the roof of the porch. I close the window because I don’t need the responsibility of Aimee tonight. I need to clear my head, and for hell’s sake, I need to figure out what I’m going to do if I can’t pass that exam. There’s no way I can do either locked up like a prisoner.

In this town there aren’t a thousand places I can go. The beach, the mall, the football field to sit under the bleachers at the regular high school. But the beach is the other direction, and I’m a year too old and at the wrong school to be the homecoming queen.

Instead, I head into town, past the barber shop and the corner market, around the random stairwell that ends at almost the middle of the sidewalk and leads to the rooftop bar that isn’t really on a rooftop. I stop in front of Books & Brews. It’s one of those vintage bookstores, hip and fashionable with a coffee shop inside. It’s crowded, and I can lose myself inside in the stacks of books and overstuffed couches. Although, I have no idea why everyone is here on a weeknight. Kind of strange in a town that’s usually wrapped in bed by eight.

I stop at the coffee counter for a caramel latte. “Midnight madness sale?” It’s only seven fifteen but who knows? In this town they even roll back midnight for things like sales, Christmas church services, and all forms of bewitching. Or so I’ve heard.

She shakes her head. “Somebig-nameauthor is here,giving a reading of her new best seller.” Her tone along with the eye roll says she doesn’t think much of big-name authors or the clientele that comes out of the woodwork to be close to them.

Funny. I thought once they were best sellers, they didn’t have to do things like seven p.m. readings in tiny bookstores populated by young adults and old ladies. But what do I know?

I take my drink, remove the lid for a big sip of whipped goodness, then head to the other side of the store, away from the crowd but still in watching distance.

They’ve moved entire racks of books to make room for their author, a reading podium, and an audience, and I sidestep many a pile of classics.

I’m probably three steps into the Victorian romance section when I see him. Zane Bradbury. My entire body tightens. He’s been dreamy since we were kids. But now…fuck. It’s not fair for a man to be so…delicious and so out of reach.

And because he’s the kind of guy a girl could see herself getting cozy with, me being the girl, I stop watching where I’m walking. Who can blame me, really, when watching him is so much more entertaining. He has a way of standing that makes me want to see what he’s like lying down.

He is grade-A, top of the line, fantasy file material.

Unfortunately for me, he’s more Aimee’s type. All-star smart. Master of magic, and apparently of wearing really well-fitted pants. We’re both legacy students. Both fifth year. Both immersed in the life we hope to lead. But he’s hot.

Everybody, not just in school but in this town, knows who he is. Maybe because he’s gorgeous, which I know is the same as hot, but it deserves a second mention becauseit’sthattrue. He’s the definition of eye candy, and I wouldn’t mind a nice big bite. He’s also rich. Like his parents own a bank, a car lot, and a furniture store kind of rich.

He’s got brown hair that’s shot through with auburn streaks. It’s a little bit too long, like he doesn’t care enough to get a haircut but cares too much to let it get out of hand, and it looks like satin.

His eyes are the color of melted chocolate, and he has a lean athletic body, plus a voice that could rival warmed butter for its smoothness. Zane Bradbury is the total package. And I’ve been crushing on him since we met in middle school.

And when he lifts his hand to wave, I look behind me because I’ve never had a conversation with him before in my life.

Except for that time when we were both in our third year that I borrowed a pen. Not because I didn’t have one but because I was wearing a blue miniskirt with my Institute blazer. I’d thought I was Gossip Girl fashionable and he would have no choice but to talk to me because I looked so good.

Plus, I wanted him to see the mile of legCosmosaid would turn him on. It didn’t. Turned out,Cosmowas wrong, and he didn’t care whether I had a mile of leg or a half inch and a stump. He didn’thaveto talk to me at all. Just handed me a pen and grunted when I said thanks. I retired the mini, canceled my subscription toCosmo, and went back to wearing jeans and rock band T-shirts.

Other than that one very brief and mostly one-sided almost conversation, I have no reason to even think he knows who I am. But when I twist to look, there’s no one and nothing behind me but a wall. And forfive seconds, maybe ten, I’m one of those girls I hate. Bubbly, gushing, blushing. Over a boy. Where’s the feminism? The independent woman? I’m pathetic.

But he’s still gorgeous so I don’t care.

Not until he’s on his way over. Then I care a lot, and I want to be worldly. I want to be the one who crosses to him like I know how to work a pair of legs, who at least meets him in the middle. And I could be worldly. With someone else’s feet, someone else’s body, maybe.

But alas, I’m me, and so karma and fate and the deities whoever step in and I trip, flailing forward, coffee flying out of my cup in a stream of brown wetness, aimed directly for Zane.

He doesn’t have time to duck, or to make any other evasive move which would get him out of the path. And so my latte becomes a hot caramel weapon and the new pattern on his shirt. Because I can’t stop time—haven’t learned the spell for that one yet—there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.

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