How to Hang a Witch Read online

  “Not to me.” He never wanted to talk about Salem, especially in the past year since my grandmother died. I didn’t even know we still owned this house until a couple weeks ago.

  “I guess he and Meriwether were longtime friends,” she continues with a tinge of judgment.

  “I think she’s sweet.” I take a bite of garlic bread.

  Vivian crinkles her nose. “Too sweet. I bet she’s nosy as anything.”

  “I don’t know.” I’m not going to agree with Vivian about Mrs. Meriwether, who seems perfectly nice.

  “Watch, she’ll be sending her son over to gather information for her.” Vivian shakes her head. Then, with an eye roll, she continues, “But I bet you wouldn’t mind that.”

  I stop mid-bite. “I really don’t care one way or the other.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, it wouldn’t hurt you to try to make friends here.” She dabs the corners of her mouth with her napkin and a small amount of cranberry lipstick marks the linen.

  My fingers tighten around my fork. “You know it ends in disaster anyway.” It’s only a matter of time before someone gets hurt or their parents forbid them to spend time with me.

  “People are disappointing. Still, you’ll have to curb the attitude a bit. Smile, even.”

  Vivian’s subtle judgments poke at my fears that this place will turn out to be just like the City. “Maybe I’ll visit Mrs. Meriwether.” I watch for a reaction. “Learn by example.”

  Vivian raises one perfect eyebrow, trying to assess whether I’m serious. Four months ago, she would have laughed at that, and I would have meant it as a joke.

  I close the ravioli container with a sigh. As a child, I used to follow Vivian everywhere. My dad called me her personal fan club. Vivian loved it. She’s always her best self while being admired. But since my dad was admitted to the hospital, there’s been tension between us. And since I found out we had to move, it’s ballooned into something I don’t know how to step back from.

  I push my chair away from the table and Vivian winces as it scrapes against the floor. I don’t say anything as I exit the dining room, which looks like it was plucked from an old British movie. The only things missing are white-gloved servants and pleasant company.

  It’s a short walk to the stairway. I pass a bathroom with dark mulberry walls and another room I can only describe as a lady’s tearoom, which looks out over a rose garden.

  I grab the railing and take two steps at a time. When I reach the top, the only light is the one coming from my room, which glows a soft yellow at the end of the hallway. Vivian’s room is at the end of the other hall, probably her way of trying to get as far away from me as possible. Vivian and I were never the cuddly types or people who worked things out with a heart-to-heart. But I can’t say this divide doesn’t bother me, either.

  I wish my dad were here. These old rooms must be filled with his memories. Maybe being here is good in a way. Distracts me from constantly worrying. I push open my door.

  “Seriously?” My once neatly folded clothes in my armoire are now in a heap on the floor.

  I inspect the armoire latch to see if it’s broken. It seems fine. Maybe I just didn’t close it all the way?

  “That’s one way to unpack,” Vivian says, standing in my doorway.

  “These were all put away an hour ago. Must’ve piled them too high.”

  “Maybe we have a ghost who doesn’t like you.” Vivian smiles. I’m sure she’s trying to lighten the mood, but this move to Salem has left me a little raw.

  “Hilarious,” I say, and she turns down the dimly lit hall and away from me.

  A pair of black sweatpants rests on top of the pile of clothes, and I trade my jeans for them. As I straighten the mess, I assess my new room. Pictures of my dad rest on the old trunk under the far window, and my mother’s jewelry box is on the vanity. I try to imagine my parents hanging out in this room when they were young.

  I put the last folded shirt back in its proper place and close the armoire, tugging on it to make sure it’s latched. I pick up the small golden picture frame off my trunk before plopping onto my down- and lace-covered bed.

  In the picture, I’m four years old and sitting on my dad’s lap outside a café in Paris. His cheek rests on the top of my head as I hold my cream puff with both hands. He’s just smeared a bit of cream on my nose, and I’m laughing. This was the trip where we met Vivian, before I started going to school and stopped traveling with him as much.

  “How can I start school tomorrow without you here to give me a pep talk?” I ask the picture. I’m really not looking forward to it. “These kids have to be nicer than at my last school, though, right? Sleep tight, Dad. I’ll love you for always.” I kiss my dad’s picture and put it down on my bedside table near a slender vase holding a single daisy-like flower with a dark center. Looks like my doorknob. I turn out the light.

  CHAPTER THREE

  * * *

  About My Last Name

  I double-check the paper in my hand that says “Homeroom—Room #11.” I pull the classroom door open. Being the new girl is like having a target on your forehead. People either mess with you or make bets on who will hook up with you first.

  I scan the room and bite my lip. Most seats are taken, except for a couple in the first row next to two girls wearing all black. Not in the way I do with ripped jeans, but more gothic chic. Lace blouses, black blazers, and skinny jeans. The rest of the room is pretty predictably preppy, what you would expect from a town bordering Boston—a place my dad calls the khaki capital.

  I slip into the seat next to the blond girl in all black.

  “That seat’s taken,” she says.

  “Yes, it is. By me.” I freeze. I’m so used to having to defend myself that I just picked a fight without meaning to. She and the olive-skinned brunette with curly hair on the other side of her turn toward me.

  “Move,” the blonde says. Her black eye makeup frames her icy glare.

  “It’s fine, Alice,” says a girl I didn’t see approach. Her dark auburn hair is perfectly tucked into a high bun, and she wears a black lace dress that flairs at the waist. “I’ll sit here.” She gracefully lowers herself into the desk on my right. The bell rings.

  “Hello, everyone. I’m Mrs. Hoxley, as many of you know. And, as you also know, I do not accept tardiness. Welcome to your first day of tenth grade,” says the stout woman with glasses and a skirt suit from the eighties. Well, she’s a charmer.

  I pull my jacket off as Mrs. Hoxley does roll call. She goes right past the M’s without mentioning me.

  “Is there anyone I missed?” Mrs. Hoxley scans our faces.

  I raise my hand.

  “Yes?”

  “My name’s Sam. I just moved here from New York.” I swallow hard. I hate talking in class.

  “Speak up. I need your full name.” Her pencil taps her clipboard.

  “Samantha Mather,” I say a bit louder. All eyes are on me, and people whisper.

  “Mather, is it? I did receive a notice about you. Haven’t had a Mather in this school for more than twenty years.”

  She remembers the last Mather at this school….Who? My dad?

  Alice and the girl next to her—Mary, I think—exchange a glance. “When that crazy old lady died, I thought they were gone,” Alice whispers to Mary but keeps her cold gaze on me.

  I turn toward her. Don’t react. Breathe.

  “But I guess we’re just not that lucky,” Alice continues.

  The challenge in her expression shatters my thin hold over my temper. “Are you talking about my dead grandmother? Real classy.”

  “I do not appreciate students speaking out of turn,” says Mrs. Hoxley.

  How did I just wind up being the one in trouble?

  Alice laughs.

  “Alice, that goes for you, too,” says Mrs. Hoxley. “I expect you to keep your family history out of the classroom.”

  “Got it,” Alice says.

  Family history? This can’t seriously be about
my last name.

  For the rest of homeroom, Alice and Mary pass notes and throw sideways looks at me. I don’t see this playing out well. Mrs. Hoxley reviews the rules and hands out our schedules. Mine is delivered by someone from the principal’s office. I have AP History first period, followed by AP Chem.

  When the bell rings, I grab my jacket and black shoulder bag.

  In the hallway, I wander, trying to figure out which way the room numbers go. I pass a glass trophy case that has GO WITCHES! written on it. Of course their mascot is a witch.

  Still staring at the case, I walk smack into someone. A guy with wavy dark hair and high cheekbones stares down at me. Gray eyes take note of my reddening face. He’s so attractive that I forget my words and my mouth hangs open. Is there a desk somewhere I can hide under before I make any more blunders? He walks away before I can tell him I’m sorry.

  “Sam,” Jaxon says, a few feet in front of me. “You lost?”

  Yes, and wishing I could press reset on this day. “Just looking for AP History.”

  “It’s right here.” He points to the door on his left. “You a sophomore or a junior?”

  “Sophomore. You’re a junior, though.”

  “It’s that obvious, huh?”

  “You’ve got that upperclassman cock—” Oh holy hell. I almost called him cocky. My hands go clammy. Only worse, I just said he has an upperclassman cock. I might die. This might be the end for me.

  Jaxon bursts out laughing. “Why, thanks. I didn’t think you noticed.”

  “Oh, no. I didn’t mean that. I meant upperclassman cockiness.” Great, now I’ve said both the things I didn’t mean to say.

  My only escape is into the classroom, which I take, but he keeps pace with me. I take a seat in the back, trying to will myself to blink out of existence.

  Jaxon takes the seat next to me, still grinning. “That might be the best thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

  I stare at my desk. This would be funny if it wasn’t so horrifying. Thankfully, he’s being nice about it. “I wish I could say that was the only stupid thing I’ve done so far.”

  “Not having a good first day at Salem High?”

  I shake my head. “Have you noticed a group of girls in my grade that wear all black—rich goth types?”

  “The Descendants?”

  I venture a look at Jaxon. “What?”

  “Like that?” He nods toward a guy and a girl entering the room. The guy wears an expensive-looking black button-down shirt, black pants, and black loafers. And she has on a floor-length black dress with a tailored black blazer. Her hair is a perfect bob.

  “Yeah, exactly like that.”

  “There are five of them in our school. He’s the only dude. They’re descended from the original witches. Everyone kinda love-hates them. People think they can curse you if they want to. I think it’s total bull.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” But I can tell from his expression that he’s not.

  “Jaxon.” A girl waves from across the room. She’s pretty, in that equestrienne sort of way.

  He smiles at her. “Hey.”

  “Sit with us,” she says, gesturing to her equally preppy girlfriend.

  “Nah, I’m good. I’m waiting for Dillon.” She looks from him to me with dagger eyes.

  Great. One more person who doesn’t like me. I’m on a roll today.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  * * *

  I Never Laugh at Cookies

  I stand near the curb outside Salem High, scanning the cars pulling into the pick-up area. Across the street, four of the Descendants walk down the sidewalk. I have to admit that together they have something intriguing about them. They’re hard not to watch.

  As they pass, people step out of their way. Everyone follows them with their eyes, though—even me. Then all together, as if on cue, they turn and stare at me. I bite my lower lip and look away.

  I feel a small pinch in the back of my head. I whip around to find Alice holding a couple strands of my hair. She raises one golden eyebrow above her dark-framed eyes. What the…?

  She walks right past me and into the street, not even acknowledging the cars. Creepy as hell. I take a step off the sidewalk, and the guy with dark hair from the hallway watches me.

  Just as I’m about to yell at Alice, Vivian’s car stops with a screech. Alice catches up with the other Descendants, and they continue down the sidewalk.

  “Making friends?” Vivian asks as I get in her car.

  I guess she didn’t just see Alice pull some of my hair out. “More like enemies.” I really wish I hadn’t snapped at Alice in homeroom.

  Vivian speeds away so fast that there’s the scent of burning rubber. “Sam.” Her tone suggests I did something wrong.

  “Honestly, it isn’t entirely my fault. They have some creepy witch social order at this school. My last name isn’t helping.” I just want someone to hug me and tell me I’m not awful and it will all blow over, but that’s not Vivian’s way. I need my dad.

  “Salem prides itself on its witches. That history is very real to the people who live here.”

  “Well, that’s insane.” I can feel the upsets from my day threatening to overtake me.

  She sighs. “That attitude won’t help you make friends.” She turns a corner, and I grip the door. “Maybe try to understand it from their perspective.”

  “I’m not going to apologize for some dude who wore a curly white wig three hundred years ago and made bad decisions just ’cause we have the same last name.”

  “It’s more complicated than that, and being stubborn is only going to make it worse.”

  That’s it. Breaking point achieved. “I don’t want your advice.”

  Vivian’s grip tightens on the wheel as she slams on the brakes. “Then you’ll get what you get.”

  I cross my arms, pulling away from Vivian’s comment and away from her in general as we bounce along our driveway.

  I beeline it for the door the second the car stops. When I enter the foyer, the fluffy white couches and big fireplace in the room to the right catch my eye. In all my unpacking yesterday, I didn’t really explore. I lean my bag against the small wooden mail table and head for the hallway to the right of the stairs, happy for something to distract me.

  It’s long and lined with doors. Portraits of dead relatives hang on the walls. I can imagine them walking down here with only a candle. I peek inside the fireplace room—which is probably the living room. There’s a beautiful old rug, and the coffee table is an antique leather trunk.

  The next door in the hall is closed, and I push it open. “Whoa.”

  The room is huge, and on the left is a grand piano. There are a couple of seating areas with white antique couches that I can’t imagine sitting on. Crystal decanters containing some sort of drink rest on a silver tray with small crystal glasses. I lift the cover on the piano keys and press an out-of-tune note.

  At the far end of the room, between two tall windows, is a painting of a girl about my age. She wears a blue and white silk dress draped with lace and holds a bouquet of yellow flowers. Her expression makes her look at ease, like she knew the artist. I’m intrigued.

  Under the painting is a small table with an open book of poetry on it. The pages are yellowed. “ ‘Black-Eyed Susan,’ ” I say, reading the poem title. The flower! Right, that’s what she’s holding. And come to think of it, that’s the kind of flower that’s in my room, too.

  Something crashes behind me, and I let out a small scream. I whip around to find the keyboard cover on the piano slammed shut. Not okay. Vivian calls my name and I sprint out of the fancy room, closing the door behind me. My hands shake.

  “Yeah?” I reply.

  “Door!”

  By the time I get back to the foyer, Jaxon’s standing in the middle of it holding a plate of cookies. “Don’t laugh, my mother wanted me to bring these.”

  Vivian gives me a look that can only mean “I told you they were nosy” before she turns to le
ave. I might agree with her, but after the day I had, I’m grateful for anyone in that school who doesn’t think I suck.

  I take the offered plate. “I never laugh at cookies.”

  “Chocolate chip butterscotch.”

  “Seriously? Your mother’s amazing,” I say loudly for Vivian’s benefit.

  “Yeah, if you ever get hungry, stop by. My mother kills it in the cooking department. It’s kinda her thing. She grows herbs and all kinds of stuff, even in the winter.”

  A strand of sun-kissed hair falls out of place and I stare at it for a second longer than I should. “You wanna stay for a bit? I was just looking around the house.” I can’t remember the last time I invited someone to hang out with me. If my dad were here, he would be grinning foolishly at us, and I would feel super self-conscious. Four months ago, I would have awkwardly avoided eye contact with him. Now I only wish his eyes were here to avoid.

  Jaxon pushes the loose hair off his forehead. “Sure.”

  I remove the plastic wrap on the plate of cookies, and he follows me down the hallway. “I only made it to the piano room,” I say with a full mouth as we walk past.

  I reach for the handle of the next door at the same time he does, and I almost smack him with the half-bitten cookie. He smiles. No one really talked to me in New York, especially not guys who looked like Jaxon. But the way he’s enjoying my awkwardness makes me want to sock him.

  He swings the door open to reveal a room covered floor to ceiling with books. Every dark wooden bookshelf is packed, and there are even books on the ground and on the small tables. The only place without books is an old brick fireplace with bare wooden paneling on either side of it. It’s not fancy like the fireplace in the living room, but I like it better.

  “A library.” I forget all about hitting Jaxon.

  “Every time I saw your grandmother she was in this room.”

  “It’s strange you know more about my grandmother than I do.” I put the cookies down on a table.

  “Why didn’t you ever come visit her?” Jaxon asks.