Furious - By Jill Wolfson Page 0,24

into the crust. “What do you all think? Is this coincidence or…?”

Alix puts down her fork with an annoyed clang. “Too bad it didn’t work the right way and give you what you wanted. She was supposed to feel guilty.”

“I would have been happy with an apology,” I agree.

Stephanie, lover of all animals, focuses on He-Cat. “I’m super glad nothing bad happened to the cat. You’ll give him lots of love, won’t you?”

Ambrosia has been quiet, but I notice her glowing at us the way most teachers look at Raymond, everyone’s prize student. She taps her fingertips together, giving us a dainty but enthusiastic round of applause. “I want to say brava to all three of you. Good job.”

I put down my sandwich. “What do you mean?”

“It’s good for a start, a little introductory flex of your muscles. Don’t fret about the unforeseen glitch. That’s to be expected. You’re new to this, and you’re not on fire yet.”

“New to what?” I ask.

“On fire how?” Stephanie says.

Without asking permission, Alix dips her spoon into my pudding. “You’re telling us that”—she licks the spoon clean, drops it back on my tray—“it was us: me, her, and her? We messed with the Leech? We’re witches? Yeah!”

I’m not surprised to hear Ambrosia’s distinctive laugh dismiss that possibility. “Witches? Of course you’re not witches!” She gives a dismissive puff. “A little something out of the ordinary happens, a female shows a talent for power, and right away she’s branded as a witch!” She makes some exaggerated sniffs. “Have you smelled any witch’s brew? That’s not something you’d likely miss. Talk about stinking to high heaven, a mix between old Brussels sprouts and dried menstrual blood.”

Stephanie gives a nervous laugh and we exchange quick, uncertain looks. Ambrosia must be joking, even though she’s not the jokey type and it’s definitely a creepy joke. Even her laugh sounds deadly serious. In fact, I get the feeling she was born without a real sense of humor. She goes on with her witch checklist: “Is anyone here cackling? Does anyone even have a warty nose?”

Alix’s hand dashes to her face. “I’ve got a zit—a big, juicy one on the chin.”

“We’ve all got zits,” Stephanie says. “Except you, Ambrosia. I always wanted to ask: How come you never, ever get a zit?”

Alix stays with the subject. “So if we’re not witches, how about vampires?” Her voice sounds light, hopeful.

Ambrosia also dismisses that idea with a stern shake of her head. “What is it with you people and your fascination with the living dead? You have vampires on the brain. They are so overrated in terms of punishment. One bite and you join a crowd of others just like you. It’s a regular party every night for eternity. Where’s the suffering in that?”

“I wouldn’t mind being a vampire,” Alix insists.

Ambrosia leans forward on the lunch table, hands folded, all business. “This is not one of Pallas’s democracies, something you can simply vote on. Forget vampires and witches. Listen carefully.”

She clears a space, hauls up her backpack, and pulls out the scrapbook from home, the one with the gold ribbon. She opens to a bookmarked place. She’s come prepared. But prepared for what? She closes her eyes, revealing the thick line of deep-blue makeup ridged along her eyelashes. She doesn’t actually need the book. She’s got the section memorized.

“Mother who made me, Mother Night hear me, bred to avenge the sighted, the blind, bred to avenge the dead. What mortal feels not awe, nor trembles at our name, hearing our fate-appointed power sublime, fixed by the eternal law.”

Her voice is even deeper than usual. It seems cut from the same fabric as her black-velvet jacket, thick and rich, swallowing up all the other sound and light in the cafeteria. I feel that everything, including myself, is disappearing under the spell of those words and her perfume. I want to hear more. But abruptly she closes the book, plants a big, loud kiss on the cover. “As I was saying the other day, Aeschylus almost got it right. Except for his totally unsatisfying ending. That ending! We can change that. The three of you can…”

Her sentence fades out. A frown. A flash of resentment.

I swivel to see the cause. Someone is coming up behind me. I take in the determined look on Ms. Pallas’s face, the unblinking blue of her eyes, the swish of her iron-colored clothes, the way she’s floating a few inches above the floor. Blink. Of course she isn’t floating.