I looked over and saw several of the teachers running for the doors.
Which weren't there anymore.
That was because a silver Land Rover had crashed through them.
Kevin Bridges staggered out of the driver's seat. He'd cut both his forehead and his hand, and was bleeding on the shiny hardwood as he bellowed, "Felicia! FELICIA!"
"Holy crap," Ryan murmured.
Kevin's date, Caroline Reed, scrambled out of the passenger side. She was sobbing. "He's crazy!" she shrieked. "He was fine, and then there was this light and . . . and . . ." She broke off into more hysterics, and I felt sick to my stomach.
"FELICIA!" Kevin continued to scream, wildly searching the gym. I looked around and saw Felicia hiding under one of the tables, her eyes huge.
I was careful this time, I thought. I'm better at this now!
Kevin found Felicia and yanked her out from under the table.
"Felicia!" He smiled broadly, his whole face lit up, which, what with the blood and all, was terrifying. I didn't blame Felicia for screaming her head off.
One of the chaperones, Coach Henry, sprinted over to help, grabbing
Kevin's arm.
But Kevin just turned, one hand still clutching Felicia, and backhanded Coach Henry across the face. The coach, who was six foot two and easily over two hundred pounds, went flying backward.
And then all hell broke loose.
People were stampeding for the doors, more teachers were swarming
Kevin, and Felicia's screams had taken on a desperate, keening edge. Only
Ryan seemed unfazed.
"Awesome!" he enthused as two girls scrambled over the Land Rover and out of the gym. "Carrie prom!"
Kevin was still holding one of Felicia's hands, and by now he was on one knee. I couldn't be sure, thanks to all the screaming, but I think he was singing to her.
Felicia wasn't screeching anymore, but she was fishing in her handbag for something.
"Oh no," I groaned. I started running toward them, but I slipped and fell in the punch.
Felicia whipped out a small red can and sprayed the contents in
Kevin's face.
His song broke off in a garbled cry of pain. He dropped her hand to claw at his eyes, and Felicia ran.
"It's okay, baby!" he shouted after her. "I don't need eyes to see you! I see you with the eyes of my heart, Felicia! My HEART!"
Great. Not only was my spell too strong, it was also lame.
I sat in the pool of punch while the chaos I'd created raged around me.
A lone white balloon bobbed by my elbow, and Mrs. Davison, my algebra teacher, stumbled past, shouting into her cell phone, "I said Green Mountain
High! Um . . . I don't know, an ambulance? A SWAT team? Just send somebody!"
Then I heard a shriek. "It was her! Sophie Mercer!"
Felicia was pointing at me, her whole body shaking.
Even over all the noise, Felicia's words echoed in the cavernous gym.
"She's . . . she's a witch!"
I sighed. "Not again."
"Well?"
I stepped out of the car and into the hot thick heat of August in
Georgia.
"Awesome," I murmured, sliding my sunglasses on top of my head.
Thanks to the humidity, my hair felt like it had tripled in size. I could feel it trying to devour my sunglasses like some sort of carnivorous jungle plant. "I always wondered what it would be like to live in somebody's mouth."
In front of me loomed Hecate Hall, which, according to the brochure clutched in my sweaty hand, was "the premier reformatory institution for
Prodigium adolescents."
Prodigium. Just a fancy Latin word for monsters. And that's what everyone at Hecate was.
That's what I was.
I'd already read the brochure four times on the plane from Vermont to
Georgia, twice on the ferry ride to Graymalkin Island, just off the coast of
Georgia (where, I learned, Hecate had been built in 1854), and once as our rental car had rattled over the shell and gravel driveway that led from the shore to the school's parking lot. So I should have had it memorized, but I kept holding on to it and compulsively reading it, like it was my wubby or something:
The purpose of Hecate Hall is to protect and instruct shapeshifter, witch, and fae children who have risked exposure of their abilities, and therefore imperiled Prodigium society as a whole.
"I still don't see how helping one girl find a date imperiled other witches," I said, squinting at my mom as we reached into the trunk for my stuff. The thought had been bugging me since the first time I'd read the brochure, but I hadn't had a chance to bring it up. Mom had spent most of the flight pretending to be asleep, probably to avoid looking at my sullen expression.
"It wasn't just that one girl, Soph, and you know it. It was that boy with the broken arm in Delaware, and that teacher you tried to make forget about a test in Arizona. . . ."