Accidentally Evil (14 page)

Two

S
tanding in the registration line at Dowling, I struggle to keep a sweaty grip on my side of the family trunk. Dad's holding the other side, shoulders back, chest out, pride spewing out of him like an erupting volcano.

I grow more anxious as each minute passes. I was flabbergasted when my parents told me about Dowling and why I had to go. How could I have been a witch my whole life and never known? Dad's explanation involving lineage and some great-great-grandmother I never met made little sense. But I knew he was telling the truth. And I knew I had to go, no matter how badly I wanted to stay in my safe, predictable world.

There's only one girl in front of us. Like me, she's
in jeans, a red polo, and white shoes. Like me, she's white-knuckling one end of her family trunk, pretending there's nowhere else she'd rather be.

Finished signing in, the family follows an older Dowling student down a wide hallway. I steel myself for the reality that my parents are about to walk me to my dorm. Then leave. For good.

I trudge up to the table and come face-to-face with a plump woman with a bright smile and curly hair so dry, it looks like it could catch fire at any moment. I make a mental note of the name on her ID badge. Agnes Armstrong.

I take her in. Mascara is caked in globs on her short, stumpy eyelashes, and the deep red lipstick smeared across her lips has smudged onto her teeth. It's kind of a mess but somehow seems right on her.

“Well, hello there!” she says. “What's your name, sugar?”

I pull my eyes from her red-stained choppers. “Hallie. Hallie Simon.”

Her eyes brighten and she raises her hand in the air. I just stare at it, confused. Surely she isn't trying to high-five me.

“You're one of my girls!” she announces, bouncing in her seat.

Since I have no idea what it means to be one of her girls, I just smile.

She waves her hand closer to me. “Well, don't leave me hanging.”

I tap my hand to hers, quick as I can. In my old school, public high-fiving is a one-way ticket to merciless mocking.

“What does it mean, exactly, when you say Hallie is one of your girls?” Mom puts her hand on my shoulder, pulling me closer.

Miss Armstrong slaps her hands to her chest. “Where are my manners! I just get so excited when I meet my girls for the first time.” She focuses her attention on me. “I'm your dorm mother, sweetie. I'll be your mom away from home.”

Mom's hand tightens on my shoulder.

“If you're sick,” she says, “I'll be the one to give you that TLC. Although . . .” Her brows draw together like she's realizing something for the first time. “I can't recall the last time a student fell ill at Dowling. Hmm. Curious.”

“Excellent to hear.” Dad shoots his hand in front of him. I brace myself for his booming salesman voice. “Phil Simon.”

I cringe, waiting for Miss Armstrong's reaction.

“Well, now, isn't that a nice howdy-do!” she says, pumping his hand firmly. “Agnes Armstrong,” she answers, the tone of her voice mimicking Dad's. She shifts her focus back to me. “But you can call me Miss A. All the girls do.”

Miss A passes Mom a business card. “Now, I don't want you to worry about a thing. You can reach me anytime, night or day. Just call that number, and whatever you do, don't forget the code. I can't talk to you unless you have the code, even if I recognize your voice.” She shakes her head abruptly. “No exceptions.”

“What's the code?” Panic makes Mom's voice a little louder, a little more forceful, than usual.

“It's printed in the bottom right-hand corner. See it?”

I lean closer and see the small series of letters and numbers that seem to squirm and shift on the paper. The harder I look at the numbers, the more they seem to morph, to change. An 8 turns into an
S
and a
T
turns into a 7.

“Yeah, I see it.” Mom looks at me, her face a jumbled mess of worry, confusion, and run-for-your-life fear.

“Now, let's see here,” Miss A says, dragging a stubby finger down a sheet of blank paper in front of her. I shift so I can get a better look at the paper, but no matter which direction I move, the paper remains blank. If it
is
blank, what in the world is she looking at?

“Nope! Your roommate hasn't arrived yet. But I'm sure she'll be here lickety-split.”

She grabs a large white envelope from a box beside her chair. She slides her hand across the envelope, and my name appears in perfect, fancy handwriting.

Or was it already there? Maybe I need new glasses.

“Here you go, Hallie. You don't want to lose this, so take special care that you don't misplace it when you unpack. It includes your daily schedule and, most important, the dining hall schedule. Be sure you make it for meals. After hours the kitchen is locked up tighter than Alcatraz.”

“There will be plenty of choices for her, correct?” Mom asks.

“She's vegetarian,” Dad adds, lowering his voice to a whisper. He hates that I'm vegetarian. He doesn't understand how anyone can survive without meat. Maybe it's my hedge witch ancestry, but I have a thing for organically grown vegetables. It's one of the many things Kendall used to tease me about.

Miss A gives a double thumbs-up. “Yes, ma'am!”

She hands me a beaded lanyard that reminds me of the necklace I got when we visited an Indian reservation in Louisiana. No two stones are the same, and they have a tribal look to them.

Hanging from the lanyard is an ID card. Dead center is a picture of me I've never seen, wearing the exact same shirt I'm wearing now. I mentally backtrack through the last few months. Did I try this shirt on before today? Did Mom take my picture? I know that I know that I
know
. . . I didn't put this shirt on before today. So that means they took this picture . . . today? How? When? And how'd it get on my badge so quickly?

Don't miss the start of Hallie's adventure:

The XYZs of Being Wicked

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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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This Aladdin M!X edition April 2015

Text copyright © 2015 by Lara Chapman

Cover illustrations copyright © 2015 by Coco Masuda

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Cover designed by Laura Lyn DiSiena

The text of this book was set in Fairfield.

Library of Congress Control Number 2014960003

ISBN 978-1-4814-0111-1 (hc)

ISBN 978-1-4814-0110-4 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-4814-0112-8 (eBook)