High School Magical

Chapter 3

When I get home, my mom hurries me to bed because I have to get up early tomorrow—she knows I'm not generally a morning person. I want to text Chelsea about her pink hair, Logan's appearance, meeting the mysterious JJ, and the subtle nervousness that always accompanies me before the first day of school, but my phone is dead.

I lay down, hoping I'll pass out, but sleep doesn't come. I feel a gentle dip on my mattress and the swish of Filbert's tail, soft and ticklish on my leg.

I pet our very large and very furry Maine Coon cat. His sparkling eyes remind me of the stars and that strange boy JJ. I decide maybe it's best I go to sleep after all.

The next morning, expecting to roll over with a ball of fluff in my face, the spot beside me where Filbert fell asleep is cold.

The sun shines through the openings in my shades, the birds chirp cheerfully, and I remember it's the first day of school.

My bedroom door creaks open. I expect my mom to tell me to get up, but it's Filbert. In his mouth, he carries what looks like a rolled up piece of paper.

"What do you have there, mister?" I ask.

Don't worry; even though I talk to my cat, I know he won't answer. If you have a family pet, don't even try to tell me you've never talked to it.

He jumps onto my bed and I sit up, making room. He drops the scroll and starts to purr. I scratch behind his ears and then pick up the paper. A red ribbon holds it closed.

"Where'd you get this?"

I know, I know, he's not going to answer. It's rhetorical.

When I was little, my mom would leave notes in my lunch box, but maybe she's getting creative, modifying old traditions as I get closer to graduation.

I untie the ribbon and pull open the scroll.

Dear Maija Wessels,

Your attendance is required at Applemoor Academy for the Magically Talented, beginning 1 September. We are delighted to inform you that you'll be joining the first graduating class of integrated magical beings, a new addition to our campus and curriculum of which we are very proud.

All required materials will be provided and your dorm assignment will be given to you upon arrival. Please inform us of any changes to your itinerary; otherwise, we look forward to seeing you in Winslow Auditorium at registration followed by the commencement ceremony.

Looking forward to an awe-inspiring year,

Signed,

Chancellor West & the Applemoor faculty and staff

I flop back onto my bed and close my eyes. Behind my lids, my name burns brightly in the night sky. This must be one long, strange dream.

A furry tail tickles my nose. I sneeze. A pair of paws kneads my stomach. I feel the pierce of a poorly sheathed claw. Ouch. No, I'm awake. I open my eyes. The note is still there.

Attendance required?

Applemoor Academy?

Magically talented?

I scoop Filbert up and follow the sound of my mother's melodious singing into the kitchen. The only time she's not singing or humming is if she's sitting still, which is almost never. I've even heard her singing in her sleep. She says her lungs were made for two things: running and singing.

She's preparing coffee on a tray. From the other room, my father's voice rumbles in low conversation. Maybe he had to take an early call for work.

"Good morning," my mom says brightly. "I was going to check if you were upright, dressed, and ready for a big day."

I clutch the rolled up paper in my hand and am about to ask about the note when I hear a second voice answering my father. I take a few steps forward and peer into the room.

My dad sits tall with one ankle crossed over his knee. On the couch opposite sits a woman wearing a light yellow caftan. Beside her, an older woman in a darker yellow caftan sits. Her lips are pursed like she sucked on a lemon.

My parents aren't eccentric by any stretch, but having been in the world of professional athletes, we've encountered some unique people. Some promise herbs and tinctures for physical ailments. Others have the solution for improving mindset and performance.

I slip back into the kitchen, but my mom steers me into the living room. I stutter, starting to protest, but her tight smile reminds me to use my manners. Never mind that, I haven't even brushed my teeth.

"Good morning," I say, trying not to breathe on anyone.

"Ah, I see you received the letter from Applemoor," says the younger woman in the yellow caftan. An older woman sits beside her wearing the same style of dress in a slightly darker color.

"Um, yeah. I was going to ask. Uh—"

"We thought it would be funny if Filbert brought it up," my dad says.

My father is many wonderful things—sensible, timely, organized—, but having a sense of humor isn't at the top of the list. My mother is the comedian in the family.

"Funny like how? Is this a joke or—"

The woman in the light yellow caftan unfolds her hands and gestures to my parents. "I think you better explain the beginning of the story, and we'll catch Maija up to speed with what's relevant in the present."

My father rubs his hands on the legs of his pants, glances at my mom who nods, and says, "When you were born we were visited by the CWC."

"That's us," the woman in the light caftan says. "My apologies for not making introductions. Usually children in your position know a bit of the background. I'm Minnie and this is Margaret. We're Certified Witch Caretakers."

"Oh."

My mom continues, "When the CWC visited they said you might have special abilities."

"Abilities?" I ask uneasily.

"Specifically, that you might be a wish witch. It's a rare type of witchcraft. In fact, only one wish witch comes along about every hundred years. That's the statute on wishes, generally speaking of course," Minnie says smartly.

"A wish witch?" I repeat.

"Only time would tell if you developed abilities. However, it's our responsibility to inform all parents that their magical child might have skills beyond the ordinary."

"So there are ordinary witches?"

"Of course. You're looking at one. Household witchcraft, general spell making, you know..." She shrugs as if it's no big deal.

I feel slightly queasy. Not excited like I might have if I were reading about this in a book, eager to know what was going to happen to the main character. Rather, I'm uncertain, afraid, and very much like I learned something extraordinary about myself that goes way, way beyond pink hair. Well, if it's true.

I lean back in the overstuffed sofa chair and rest my forehead in my hand. In the other, I still hold the scroll. I glance from my mom to my dad, but neither indicates any of this is a joke.

"So what you're saying is I'm a witch?"

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