Parties & Potions Page 2

  Or maybe they’d think I was a freak. Or worry that I’d cast love spells on them that accidentally bewitch their older brothers.

  No, my secret must stay squashed. I shiver and sling my purse over my shoulder. “Let’s get this show”—my secret reality freak show—“on the road.”

  Moon over Manhattan

  “Do we have to stay long?” I whine while pressing the front bell of a building at Thirteenth Street and Broadway. “How long do these Full Moon thingies last, anyway?”

  “A few hours.” Miri shushes me, clutching a candle— our gift—to her chest. It was the witchiest thing we could think of. Besides a cat. But bringing an animal as a dinner gift might be weird. Maybe a stuffed animal? Also weird.

  “Stop being such a baby,” she continues. “This is exciting! Our first real witch experience! I just wish you hadn’t made us ten minutes late.”

  The truth is I am a little excited. Miri and I have never been invited to anything witchy before. Since Mom only just this year told us about our powers (she had to after Miri accidentally brought a lobster back to life at a formal dinner), we haven’t had any exposure to the witchcraft community. In fact, until Miri discovered Mywitchbook.com, we weren’t even sure there was a witchcraft community.

  It would be great to have people I could talk to about all this magic stuff. Then the secret wouldn’t always be bubbling inside me, threatening to overflow.

  I buzz a second time. The early-September breeze blows through my shirt. “No one’s home. Are you sure this is the right place?”

  Miri sighs. “Ring again.”

  “You ring, if you’re so sure.”

  She buzzes and we both wait. And wait. We can practically hear the chirping cicadas. Not that there are cicadas in New York City. But that’s what the sound effects would be on my TV show.

  “Maybe they’re already on the roof,” Miri says.

  “It’s kind of rude of them not to answer the bell, don’t you think?”

  “It’s kind of rude to be ten minutes late,” Miri counters.

  “Ten minutes isn’t late. Everyone knows you have a fifteen-minute grace period.”

  “You’d think that, since you’re always late. Let’s call her. Do you have your cell? Oh right, you don’t have a cell. I do.” She whips out her phone, wiggles it under my nose, and then punches in the number.

  “Hi, Wendaline? It’s Miri. We’re downstairs. We tried buzzing but—”

  I feel a burst of air, and a witch appears beside me. And I mean, a witch. On a broomstick. The girl is wearing a black witch hat and a matching robe. I leap back.

  “Great! You’re here!” the witch says, wrapping Miri and me in a tight hug. “So nice to finally meet you in person, Miri! You’re even prettier than your picture! And you must be Rachel!”

  I can’t believe she just “Appeared” on Broadway, one of the busiest streets in the city I anxiously study the passersby Did anybody see? Are they going to call the police? Is there a law against Appearing? Luckily, no one seems to be gaping at us. Hey, it’s New York. Weird things happen hourly. Yesterday a man on a unicycle almost pedaled over my foot. “Nice to meet you too,” I tell Wendaline.

  “This is for you,” Miri says shyly, handing over the candle.

  “You are so sweet! But you didn’t have to bring any-thing.” She looks around. “Where are your brooms?”

  “We walked,” I say, appraising her. She’s taller than we are, about five foot five, and pretty. Clear, smooth skin; big doelike green eyes outlined in dark charcoal. Although a doe probably has brown eyes. Whatever. Her lips are coated with a pretty purplish gloss. The hair pouring from under her pointy hat is long, dark, and curly. Nice, but a bit Rapunzelish.

  On closer inspection, I notice that her robe is embroidered. And satiny. Like the kimonos my dad brought us back from a business trip in Tokyo, except black. She’s wearing tight black leggings and three-inch-heeled black patent leather Mary Janes. Very witch-chic.

  “I love your cloak,” Miri gushes.

  “Thank you!” Wendaline says. “Shall we zoom up to the roof? Oh, wait, no brooms. It’s all good. We can take the elevator. Are you guys gray?”

  “Gray what?” I ask. I didn’t zap my skin color along with my back-to-school shirt, did I?

  “Gray witches,” Wendaline clarifies. “Is that why you walked all the way?”

  Miri shakes her head. “What’s a gray witch?”

  “You know, someone who tries to use less magic in everyday life. Environmagically conscious. Keep the black and white balance in the universe and all that.”

  She obviously has not seen the state of Miri’s comforter.

  Wendaline unlocks the door. “I try to be less wasteful, but my parents are so old-school, you know?”

  “I’m definitely gray,” my sister the suck-up says as we follow our new friend inside. If I know Miri, she’ll now be dressing in all gray for the rest of her life just to make a point.

  We pass a mirrored hallway, where I check myself out to ensure I am not in fact gray, and then we zoom up twenty flights to the roof. “Zoom” in the mere mortal sense, aka taking the elevator.

  About twenty-five people, sitting around a ginormous, beautifully set oval table under the dark sky, are waiting for us. Who are all these guys? For some reason I thought it would just be us and Wendaline’s family. And omigod— they’re all wearing black robes and witch hats. Are they all witches? It’s like I just stepped into a haunted house. I peer at their faces. They look normal. No pasty white skin or bloodshot eyes. No serial killers. Hopefully.

  “It’s all good,” Wendaline tells us. “They don’t bite.”

  Guess they’re not vampires, either. Ha-ha.

  “Hello, hello!” exclaims a woman at the head of the table. She looks like an older version of Wendaline. Same long hair, only streaked with silver. She’s also wearing a black satin robe. “Happy Full Moon! You arrived just in time. We’re about to start!”

  Wendaline ushers us to the only three empty chairs. Gorgeous chairs. They’re gold and sparkly and each one is covered with an embroidered supersoft duvet-like cushion. Miri sits down in the middle one, and Wendaline and I take our places beside her. Ah. It’s like a massage for my butt.

  Wow. I haven’t seen such a beautifully set table since my dad’s wedding. There are fancy bowls and serving plates, many sizes of glasses, and at least five different forks per per-son. In the center of the table are what feel like hundreds of candles of various shapes, ranging from the size of a dinner plate to the size of my pinkie. Guess she didn’t need another one. Oh well. We tried. Next time we’ll bring a stuffed cat. I mean, a stuffed animal! Yikes, what kind of evil witch am I?

  When I’m done ogling the table, I notice the moon.

  The full, round, luminous moon hanging above our heads.

  Sure, I’ve seen a full moon before, but never in the city. Once in a while you can catch a sliver of the moon peeping up from behind a skyscraper, but usually it’s a pretty moonless town. From Wendaline’s roof it’s incredible.

  Next I study the man with the salt-and-pepper beard on my right. He too is wearing a black robe and a witch hat. So that means … he’s a witch! A wizard? A warlock? I’ve never met a boy witch before. I knew they existed. I’ve heard of them. But here they are! Right next to me! I look around and count ten—yes, ten!—men at the table.

  Unfortunately, none are my age. Not that I’m looking for a potential crush. I have a boyfriend already, thank you very much. A perfectly good boyfriend too. Shmooperou! Or shmoopster. Or whatever. But still, it would be cool to meet a teen witch-boy

  “Everyone,” Wendaline says. “This is Rachel and Miri.”

  “Hello, Rachel and Miri,” everyone says.

  “Hi,” we say a little shyly.

  I put my napkin on my lap and nudge Miri to do the same. These people seem formal.

  “This is my mom, Mariana,” Wendaline says, pointing around the table, “my dad, Trenton; my little
brother, Jeremiah.” He’s maybe six. “My mom’s sister Rhonda; my uncle Alexander; their daughters, Edith and Loraine; my dad’s brother Thomas and my aunt Francesca, my cousins Nadine and Ursula, my Moga Pearl …” I have no idea what a moga is, but since she’s pointing to the oldest witch at the table, I’m thinking it’s a grandmother. Or maybe just an old per-son. Either way I can’t help admiring Wendaline’s funky black nail polish. “My dad’s sister Alana; my uncle Burgess; my other moga, Moga Gisela; my Mogi Thompson”— Grandma and Grandpa?—“my parents’ friends Brenna and Stephen; their kids, Coral and Kendra; and their other friends Doreen, Jerry, Brandon, Nicola, Dana, and Arthur.”

  Yowza. That’s a lot of names. Most of which just sped through my head faster than a cabbie trying to make a yellow light.

  “There will be a quiz after dessert,” says Arthur, the salt-and-pepper guy sitting next to me. The rest of the table laughs.

  “Time to begin,” Wendaline’s mom says, hushing the table with her long hand. Wow, those are some pointy black nails. Guess I know where Wendaline gets her fashion tips. Her mom turns to me and my sister. “Would you two like to say the Votra?”

  Huh? “Um …”

  “It’s all good,” Wendaline says, sensing my discomfort. “I’ll do it.” She rises, wiggles her fingers in the air, and says,

  “lshta bilonk higyg

  So ghet hequi bilobski.

  Bi redical vilion!”

  Or something like that. I actually have no idea what she said. None. Zilch. Zip. Zero. I turn to Miri and give my best “Did you understand what just came out of her mouth?” look, but she’s too busy staring at Wendaline in awe. I need a dictionary at this thing. Although it might help if I knew what language she was speaking.

  When Wendaline is done, she tilts her head way back so that her face is directed to the sky, and chants, “Kamoosh! Kamoosh! Kamoosh!”

  All the candles on the table instantly light up.

  Omigod! I push my seat back to avoid catching on fire. Unfortunately, my chair falls backward and I land with a crash on my back. Oops.

  Half the table rushes to pick me up.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine,” I murmur. “I hope I haven’t broken the fancy chair. Or my head.”

  Wendaline laughs. Miri is scowling and looking like she wants to crawl under the table. Apparently, I have embarrassed her in front of her sophisticated Internet friends.

  When I’m back upright and everyone has returned to their seats, Wendaline’s mom snaps three times and says, “Ganolio!”

  All our bowls fill with red soup. Coolio. It must be tomato soup, right? It has to be. I think back to my Hansel and Gretel crack. It’s not blood soup. It can’t be. I lean in to take a sniff. Tomato. Definitely tomato.

  I think.

  I wait for Miri to taste it just in case.

  Wendaline’s mom takes a spoonful. “So, tell me, girls, let’s play witch genealogy. What are your parents’ names? Do we know them?”

  “You don’t know my dad,” I say quickly. “He’s not a witch. Or a wizard. Warlock?”

  “Warlock,” Arthur says, sipping his wine.

  “And your mother?” her mom asks.

  “Carol,” Miri says. “Carol Graff.”

  “Carol Graff, Carol Graff … no, I don’t know that name.” She dips a piece of bread in her soup and chews off the end.

  Aunt Rhonda leans directly across the table toward us, and I get a whiff of her strong sugary perfume. “Do you mean Carolanga Graff?”

  I shake my head. Is that actually a name? It sounds like a disease. Poor kid. “Her name is Carol.”

  “Does she have a sister Sasha?” Aunt Rhonda asks.

  Huh. That’s strange. “Carol Graff has a sister Sasha,” I say.

  “It must be her,” Aunt Rhonda says. “We used to run in the same circles. Years ago. Maybe she changed her name?”

  “I guess,” Miri says, tensing.

  Could our mom have had another name and never bothered to tell us? How could she do that? Why would she do that? Does she have another identity? A secret family? Or is it some sort of witness protection thing? Have we just blown her cover? Maybe we’ll have to move somewhere ran-dom, like Wisconsin.

  Witches in Wisconsin is not a bad name for a TV show. It even has alliteration.

  “I wonder why she’d change it. Carolanga is such a beautiful name,” Aunt Rhonda says. “Langa means light in Brixta, you know.”

  I have no idea what she just said.

  “Sorry, but what’s Brixta?” Miri asks.

  Aunt Rhonda drops her spoon in surprise. “The ancient witch language! You girls don’t speak it?”

  Miri shrugs helplessly. “I didn’t even know there was an ancient witch language.”

  Our mother of light sure kept us in the dark.

  “Wendaline is fluent, you know,” her mother brags.

  “So, what is your mom up to?” Aunt Rhonda asks. “I haven’t seen her in ages.”

  Miri hesitates. “She kind of went off the witch grid for a while.”

  “Please give her our regards.”

  “Oh, we will,” I say, finishing my soup. Secret name? Secret language? I’m going to give her more than regards. I’m going to give her a piece of my mind.

  When we’re done with the soup, Wendaline’s mom snaps her fingers and says, “Moosa!” The bowls disappear.

  I’m so going to have to try that at home. Perhaps the next time Mom makes her chickpea curry. Only I’ll do it before I have to eat it.

  When she yells “Ganolio” again, a pear, pine nut, and goat cheese salad appears on a fresh plate. My favorite kind of salad—no vegetables.

  Miri and I don’t talk much while we eat it; we have too much listening to do.

  They gossip about people they know.

  “Did you know that Mitchell Harrison got married last week?” Aunt Rhonda says, and then whispers, “To a notch.”

  “No!” the table cries.

  I don’t know who the notches are, but to fit in I put on my “That’s unbelievable!” face. I’m not sure if it’s unbelievably good or bad, but clearly it’s unbelievable.

  “Yes,” her husband says. “Last week.”

  “That is so sad for his parents,” Wendaline’s mom says with a loud sigh.

  Unbelievably sad, apparently. I shake my head to commiserate.

  “It’s his life, and he can do what he wants,” Wendaline says indignantly. “If he’s happy, you should be happy for him.”

  I stop the shaking and start nodding and then decide just to keep my head still and focus on my salad before I accidentally bite off my tongue.

  They talk about politics.

  “The witch union is just so useless these days,” Aunt Rhonda says.

  “Seriously,” says one of the relatives. “Is there anyone in charge over there?”

  Miri squeezes my knee under the table. She is soaking it all up, enjoying every second. At least until Wendaline’s mom ganolios up the main course, veal Parmesan. I look worriedly at my vegetarian sister. “What are you going to eat?”

  She prods her main course with her fork.

  “If you zap your meal back into a cow, no one here would be too surprised.”

  “Ha-ha.”

  “Yours is tofu, Miri,” Wendaline tells her. “It’s all good. I know you don’t eat meat. It’s on your Mywitchbook profile.”

  The happy look returns to Miri’s eyes. These witches sure know how to throw a dinner party.

  We both dig in.

  “Will you girls be doing your Samsortas this year?” Wendaline’s mom asks us between bites.

  “Sorry?” Miri squeaks. “What’s a Samsorta?”

  Mrs. Peaner’s eyes bulge.

  “Your coming out!” Aunt Rhonda cries. “You’ve never heard of Samsortas?”

  We shake our heads.

  “It’s only the biggest social event of the calendar year,” Cousin Ursula says. “You’ve never been?”

  We shake again.


  “It’s on October thirty-first,” Aunt Rhonda explains. “New witches from around the world are announced to witchcraft society. It’s a tradition.”

  “It’s pretty cool,” Wendaline says. “It’s like a debutante ball for witches.”

  “It’s gone on since the Middle Ages,” her mom adds.

  “I know,” Aunt Rhonda says. “I was there.”

  A “huh” escapes my lips.

  She nods. “It was six lives ago, but I have an excellent memory.”

  Um …

  “That’s where Halloween comes from,” Wendaline ex-plains. “That’s why notches and norlocks dress up. They come out like witches, and they don’t even know why!”

  Okay, I have to ask. “What are notches and norlocks?”

  “Oh! Nonwitches and nonwarlocks,” she says.

  If only I had a laptop to take notes on. Maybe my dad will get me one for my birthday? That would be so cool. “So what happens on October thirty-first?”

  “All the new witches gather in Zandalusha, the old witch burial grounds, and perform the Samsorta ceremony.”

  A cemetery? On Halloween? Sounds creepy. “Is it in New York?”

  They all chuckle.

  “Here in the New World? Hardly,” Aunt Rhonda says, turning up her nose. “Zandalusha is on a small island in the Black Sea, off Romania. It’s where all our foremothers are buried.”

  A witch cemetery in Romania. Creepy to the power of a gazillion.

  Wendaline must see my “ick” expression, because she hurries to say, “It’s really beautiful. I went to Ursula’s Sam a few years ago and it was the most amazing thing. Really spiritual. You’re given away by an older witch who was already Samsorted, and you add a lock of hair to the Holy Cauldron, and there’s a candle ceremony, and you perform a spell that came from the original spell book in Brixta.”

  Is the original spell book A2? It comes in Brixta, too? It’s tough enough to read in English, never mind Brixta. There are way too many sections.

  “I am so excited for mine,” Wendaline continues. “I started training last month. Oh, you guys should do it too!”

  “Um …” A cemetery on Halloween with a bunch of witches? Thanks, but no thanks. “We’ll see,” I say. But what I really mean is “no way.”