Even though part of me was sure he'd forget all about me and be gone by the time school finally ends, Miah is leaning against the trunk of his disaster of a car when I walk out to the student parking lot. My heart turns over in my chest, and I struggle to keep the corny grin off my face. I almost feel like one of those girls in those ridiculous teen movies, where all it takes is a smile from the "right" guy to turn the day around. It's sad, but true; just seeing Miah always makes me feel a little more hopeful, even if it's hard to believe I'll ever really have a chance with him.
As if fate has heard my thoughts, Becca brushes past me and strides up to Miah, a confident swagger in her hips. I hang back for a minute, uncertain, but Miah doesn't look happy to see her. In fact, a pained expression flickers across his face before he gives her a polite smile. I'm too far away to hear what she says, but Becca isn't trying to be polite. She stands close enough to Miah that she could kiss him, her hand resting on his chest possessively. Miah tilts his head like he's listening to her, but then he shakes it slowly, and I see Becca's fingers curl reflexively. I'm not sure I want to get in the middle of whatever is going on between them, especially knowing how vicious Becca can be, but my feet clearly have other plans, and I walk up to them, struggling to look casual.
Miah smiles when he sees me, but Becca ignores me. I clear my throat, trying not to sound nervous. "You ready?"
Miah steps away from Becca and reaches for the drivers' side handle. "Just about."
Becca turns and studies me, her eyes narrowing as she realizes that Miah is going to give me a ride home. "I thought you took the bus," she says, her voice cold.
I force a smile. "Not today." Moving with more purpose than I feel, I head to the passenger door, glancing back at Becca to make sure she's watching. She is; her eyes are trained on me like a basilisk, but I try to ignore her poisoned stare. She studies me, her face calculating, and then she slips back into her flirty demeanor and turns to Miah.
"I'll see you later, right?" Her words are thick with meaning, and I watch Miah intently, wondering how he'll react.
"Becs, I don't think..." he clears his throat, casting a glance over his shoulder at me, and I hurriedly pretend to be looking for something in my backpack. "Let's leave it for now, okay?"
She leans toward him, pretending to whisper, but she's pitched her voice so I can hear every word. "You aren't seriously thinking of replacing me, are you? Even if we're taking a break right now, there's no one who knows you like I do. That's the kind of scribe you need if you want to win—"
Miah interrupts her quickly. "Not now, okay? We'll talk later."
Without waiting for her answer, he opens the car door and gets in. Becca smiles after him, but when the car pulls out of the lot, she glares at me, and I have a feeling that I've just given her another reason to hate me. My skin turns cold, but then I remember I'm in Miah's car, alone with him, and I focus on the caster next to me.
His light brown hair is long enough to gather in a short ponytail at his neck, but instead of looking sloppy, it just makes him look even more charming. My eyes skim the lines of his face, and I notice with a shock that he's starting to grow what looks like a goatee. It's darker than his hair, closer to black, and I wonder what he'll look like when all the stubble grows in the way he wants it.
Miah glances at me, and his expression of concentration slips into an easy smile. "How was your first day?"
"It's not really a first day when I went here last year, you know."
He chuckles. "But now you aren't a freshman, so that definitely counts for something."
My heart starts to thud. Does that mean I count for something to him? Miah's only six months older than me, but because of the birthday cut-off, he's a junior this year, an untouchable upper classman...and he's sitting here waiting for me to say something.
"What are you trying to win?" I blurt the words without thinking, but then I kick myself; whatever Becca was talking about with him, I don't want to give him a reason to think about her. I really don't know how to flirt, I realize, sinking back into my seat.
Miah's hands clench on the wheel. "How are your spells coming along?"
I know he doesn't mean to be mean, but it's all I can do to fight the tears that well up in my eyes. I pick at a rip in the upholstery of my seat, not looking at him. "Coming, I guess."
"Have you been practicing this summer?"
Not really. "Some," I lie. I don't want to tell him that I've pretty much given up on scribing, especially after that spectacular disaster of a spell I tried for Mom's birthday. There's still soot on the kitchen ceiling; even Christina couldn't get it off, although she did manage to keep the spell from incinerating us.
Miah glances at me. "Shelby," he says, pausing as if he's considering his words carefully. "I really want you to practice. I mean," he rushes on, his cheeks turning red, "it would be good for you to get used to scribing for someone other than Christina, right?"
My heart sinks. Christina won't even test my spells anymore, let alone use them, but there's no reason to tell Miah that. "You're probably right," I say, as if I'm considering it, but all I can think about is how far out of my league Miah is. Hotness aside, he's the second-best teen caster I know, after my own stupid sister. There's no way he'll want to spend any time, magical or otherwise, with a pathetic excuse for a scribe like me.
He flashes me a smile and relaxes his grip on the steering wheel. "That's cool. Maybe...maybe once you practice some more, you can show me your stuff?"
Did Jeremiah Smallwood seriously just ask to see my spells? My skin feels all cold and clammy, and for a minute, I don't think I know how to breathe. Finally, I remember what my lungs are supposed to do, and I inhale sharply, choking on the rush of air. I start coughing, hacking, really, and Jeremiah looks at me in concern.
"You okay? Do you need me to pull over or something?"
I shake my head, letting my dark hair fall in front of my face so he can't see me for a moment. When I finally get a grip, I take a careful breath in through my nose and I let the air out through my mouth. Instantly, I feel calmer, and I glance over at Jeremiah. "Why would you want to see my spells?" I ask, trying to keep my tone curious, but I'm sure he hears the hurt that lurks behind my words.
He rubs the back of his neck with one hand, leaving the other draped casually over the steering wheel. "Christina has been doing really cool stuff lately," he says, sneaking a sideways look at me. "It'd be really cool if you'd show me something before you give it to her."
And just like that, the exaltation I felt at the idea that Jeremiah might finally be interested in me dissipates, replaced by deep, soul-crushing disappointment. He thinks I'm the reason Christina is so good at casting. I don't know what's worse: letting him keep believing that I'm better than I can ever be, or telling him how pathetic my spells really are. I clench my hands in my lap and look down at my shoes.
"Um," I begin, and then I pause. I may be ready for a new start, but I'm not ready to tell Miah just how wrong he is about me. "Sure," I say instead, "I'd like that."
His face lights up, and my heart gives an answering thump of excitement at his expression. "That's awesome, Shelby. I knew you were cool." He drums his fingers on the steering wheel, his head cocked to one side. "Listen," he says slowly, "I know you probably have a curfew tonight, since it's the first day of school and all that, but do you want to go downtown with me?"
"What, like, now?" The idea of going anywhere with Miah is almost enough to erase my guilt over lying to him. I didn't lie, I tell myself firmly. I just didn't bother to correct his mistaken assumption. That's not lying.
He chuckles. "No. Tonight. There's a---there's something I'd like to show you."
Now my heart is thumping against my ribcage like a trapped animal, and I'm sure Miah can hear it if he listens. Is he asking me out? Oh sweet merciful magic, all my dreams are seriously about to come true. I knew this would be the year that things finally change for me. Struggling to sound casual, I look out the window and answer him. "How late are we talking?"
"I usually get home by midnight, but sometimes it goes 'til one."
My heart stops with one final heavy thud; there's no way my parents will let me stay out so late, even if it weren't a school night, but I don't want to say that to Miah. This might be my one chance to get him to see that we belong together, and I'm not going to waste it because of a silly thing like my parents' rules. "I should be okay," I say, a grin slipping onto my face. "What time will you pick me up?"
He gives me an answering smile, and my heart melts. "I won't be driving," he says as he turns into our neighborhood. "Parking's a bitch down there, but the MAXs run all night. Meet me at the station around 8:30?"
"Will you tell me where we're going?" We've pulled up in front of my house, but I don't want to get out of the car. I want an excuse to keep talking to Miah forever, even if it means everyone in the neighborhood notices the car idling at the curb.
He gives me his cheesiest wink. "It's a surprise. But trust me, you'll love it!"
Oh, god, can he tell I'm practically a puddle of goo? My lips stretch into a wide smile as I get out of the car. I look back over my shoulder to wave at Miah as I walk toward the house, and my foot catches on the drainage grate at the end of our driveway, causing me to pitch forward. My backpack swings over my head, dumping its contents into a puddle as I fall, and even though I catch my balance before I wipe out, I'm ready to die of embarrassment. Why do you have to be so klutzy in front of him? I take a deep breath and glance up to see if Miah is laughing at me, but all I see are his taillights down the street at the stop sign. For a moment, I feel a flicker of annoyance that he didn't stop and offer to help, but then I comfort myself with the fact that he probably missed my spectacular display, which in the long run is better than him being chivalrous, any day.
I kneel to pick up all my books and crap that fell into the street when I tripped, and my hands brush against the stupid pink sweater. I shake my head, shoving everything into my bag as fast as I can before I hurry up the driveway to the big, rambling house my family calls home. I've always thought it was kind of stereotypical that our neighborhood is filled mostly with gingerbread trim and old Victorian houses; I mean, we're already a weird segregated neighborhood of casters and scribes. Do we really need to live in the kind of houses that show up in every movie about magic ever? Still, my parents' lavender house is kind of cool, in a haunted house kind of way. We don't have ghosts (I'm not entirely sure they exist, but every year, there are stories about some famous caster or scribe who wants to stick around after death and attempts a spell that will allow her to do it), but the wrought iron tips on the countless peaks of the roof, combined with the chimneys that aren't all standing at right angles and the sagging wrap around porch, make the house feel like it has a million secrets. When Christina and I were little, we used to play in one of the attic rooms, making believe that we were off to find a treasure or a cache of amazing ancient spells. We never found anything other than a lot of dust and an old steamer trunk full of turn-of-the-century clothes, but that didn't make the game any less fun.
See, I haven't always hated Christina. Sure, she's always been unusually talented, even considering how powerful Mom and Dad are, but when we were kids, she never used to lord it over me or act like her casting made her any different from me. It's hard for me to admit this, but I used to look up to her, and I used to imagine that I would be just like her when I grew up.
Shaking my head, I step onto the old porch, which greets me with its familiar groan. Wind chimes tinkle a discordant melody as I open the door and step into the hallway; Mom loves chimes, and the house is covered with them, inside and out. She says the bells help clear the energy for magic, but I think she just likes to hear whenever someone comes up the porch or is moving from room to room in the house. Most of her inside chimes are in doorways, and they're low enough that I have to duck.
"Shelby? Is that you?" Mom calls from the kitchen at the back of the house, and even though I want to slip upstairs unnoticed and start figuring out how I'm going to sneak out for my date with Miah, I follow her voice with a sigh. When I come around the corner of the big kitchen, Mom looks up and smiles.
She's got a pencil stuck in her hair, an ink pot in front of her, and a feather pen between her fingertips. The family spell book is open on the counter in front of her, and green mist swirls up from the pages like steam. "Just a second, honey," she says, nodding at me before she looks back at the book and makes one last deliberate mark with her feather pen. I drop my bag in the doorway and head toward the refrigerator while she finishes the spell.
I grab a tub of hummus and some carrot sticks and turn around to find Mom watching me. "Was it a good first day?"
I shrug, not wanting to get into any of it. The only good part about the day was Miah, and I don't want to risk spilling anything to Mom before the date. "What are you scribing?" I ask instead, trying to distract her.
She sighs. "Your father has been working too hard lately, and he won't listen to any of my non-magical advice about blood pressure or taking it easy. I'm hoping this spell will do what I can't."
I cross to the spell book and skim the words; it's a spell for stress relief, and it looks like Mom's written it so it can be added to any other spell. "You think he'll do it?"
She smiles at me. "I added it to the book right after the spell he's always using to get work done faster, so I'm hoping he combines them without noticing."
I laugh. "You're devious," I say, sitting down on a barstool across from her.
She winks. "Good scribes have to be a little sneaky sometimes. It isn't easy to get a caster to do your spells."
My snack suddenly tastes like sand. "Right," I say, putting the food down on the counter. "I better go do my homework."
"Shelby, I didn't mean—"
"No, it's fine," I say in a rush, standing up as fast as I've sat down. "But seriously, I have work to do."
Mom bites her lip, looking guilty. "Okay." She pauses, and I head toward the door. "Do you have any new spells you want me to take a look at?"
I bark a humorless laugh. "What's the point, Mom? Christina can't use a defective scribe and pass her Threes. Wouldn't it be better if we all stopped pretending I can write anything worthwhile?"
"Shelby," Mom begins, but I'm too embarrassed by my explosion to stick around and hear what she has to say. Hurrying from the room, I head for the stairs, hoping that she won't follow me and try to have a heart to heart.
She doesn't.