Хлоя Нейл: Firespell

I pulled a design book from the shelf and flipped through it. Letters, in every shape and form,

were spread across the pages, from a sturdy capitalA to a tiny, curlicuedZ .

“I’m sensing a theme here,” I said, smiling up at Scout. “You like words. Lists. Letters.”

She nodded. “You string some letters together, and you make a word. You string some words together, and you make a sentence, then a paragraph, then a chapter. Words have power.”

I snorted, replacing the book on the shelf. “Words have power? That sounds like you’re into some Harry Potter juju.”

“Now you’re just being ridiculous,” she said. “So, what does a young Lily Parker do in Sagamore, New York?”

I shrugged. “The usual. I hung out. Went to the mall. Concerts. TiVoANTM andMan vs. Wild .”

“Oh, my God, Ilove that show,” Scout said. “That guy eats everything.”

“And he’s hot,” I pointed out.

“Seriously hot,” she agreed. “Hot guy eats bloody stuff. Who knew that would be a hit?”

“The producer of every vampire movie ever?” I offered.

Scout snorted a laugh. “Well put, Parker. I’m digging the sarcasm.”

“I try,” I admitted with a grin. It was nice to smile—nice to have something to smile about.

Heck, it was nice to feel like this boarding school business might be doable—like I’d be able to make friends and study and go about my high school business in pretty much the same way as I could have in Sagamore.

A shrill sound suddenly filled the air, like the beating of tiny wings.

“Oops, that’s me,” Scout said, untangling her legs, hopping off the bed, and grabbing a brick-

shaped cell phone that was threatening to vibrate its way off one of the shelves and onto the floor. She picked up the phone just before it hit the edge, then unpopped the screen and read its contents.

“Jeez Louise,” she said. “You’d think I’d get a break when school starts, but no.” Maybe realizing she was muttering in front of an audience, she looked up at me. “Sorry, but I have to go. I have to . . . exercise. Yes,” she said matter-of-factly, as if she’d decided on exercise as an excuse, “I have to exercise.”

Apparently intent on proving her point, Scout arched her arms over her head and leaned to the right and left, as if stretching for a big run, then stood up and began swiveling her torso, hands at her waist. “Limbering up,” she explained.

I arched a dubious brow. “To go exercise.”

“Exercise,” she repeated, grabbing a black messenger bag from a hook next to her door and maneuvering it over her head. A white skull and crossbones grinned back at me.

“So,” I said, “you’re exercising in your uniform?”

“Apparently so. Look, you’re new, but I like you. And if I guess right, you’re a heck of a lot cooler than the rest of the brat pack.”

“Thanks, I guess?”

“So I need you to be cool. You didn’t see me leave, okay?”

The room was silent as I looked at her, trying to gauge exactly how much trouble she was about to get herself into.

“Is this one of those, ‘I’m in over my head’ kind of deals, and I’ll hear a horrible story tomorrow about your being found strangled in an alley?”

That she took a few seconds to think about her answer made me that much more nervous.

“Probably nottonight ,” she finally said. “But either way, that’s not on you. And since we’re probably going to be BFFs, you’re going to have to trust me on this one.”

“BFFs?”

“Of course,” she said, and just like that, I had a friend. “But for now, I have to run. We’ll talk,” she promised. And then she was gone, her bedroom door open, the closing of the hallway door signaling her exit. I looked around her room, noticing the pair of sneakers that sat together beside her bed.

“Exercise, my big toe,” I mumbled, and left Scout’s museum, closing the door behind me.

It was nearly six o’clock when I walked the few feet back to my room. I glanced at the stack of books and papers on the bureau, admitting to myself that prep-ping for class tomorrow was probably a solid course of action.

On the other hand, there were bags to be unpacked.

It wasn’t a tough choice. I liked to read, but I wasn’t going to spend the last few waking hours of my summer vacation with my nose in a book.

I unzipped and unstuffed my duffel bag, cramming undergarments and pajamas and toiletries into the bureau, then hanging the components of my new St. Sophia’s wardrobe in the closet.

Skirts in the blue and gold of the St. Sophia’s plaid. Navy polo shirt. Navy cardigan. Blue button-up shirt, et cetera, et cetera. I also stowed away the few articles of regular clothing I’d brought along: some jeans and skirts, a few favorite T-shirts, a hoodie.

Shoes went into the closet, and knickknacks went to the top of the bureau: a photo of my parents and me together; a ceramic ashtray made by Ashley that read BEST COWGIRL EVER. We didn’t smoke, of course, and it was unrecognizable as an ashtray, as it looked more like something you’d discover in the business end of a dirty diaper. But Ashley made it for me at camp when we were eight. Sure, I tortured her about how truly heinous it was, but that’s what friends were for, right?

At the moment, Ash was home in Sagamore, probably studying for a bio test, since public school had started two weeks ago. Remembering I hadn’t texted her to let her know I’d arrived, I flipped open my phone and snapped shots of my room—the empty walls, the stack of books, the logoed bedspread—then sent them her way.

“UNIMPRESSED RR,” she texted back. She’d taken to calling me “Richie Rich” when we found out that I’d be heading to St. Sophia’s—and after we’d done plenty of Web research. She figured that life in a froufrou private school would taint me, turn me into some kind of raving Blair Waldorf.

I couldn’t let that stand, of course. I sent back, “U MUST RESPECT ME.”

She was still apparently unimpressed, since “GO STUDY” was her answer. I figured she was probably on to something, so I moved back to the stack of books and gave them a look-see.

Civics.

Trig.

British lit.

Art history.

Chemistry.

European history.

“Good thing they’re starting me off easy,” I muttered, nibbling on my bottom lip as I scanned the textbooks. Add the fact that I was apparently taking a studio class, and it was no wonder Foley scheduled a two-hour study hall every night. I’d be lucky if two hours were enough.

Next to the stack of books was a pile of papers, including a class schedule and the rules of residency at St. Sophia’s. There wasn’t a building map, which was a little flabbergasting since this place was a maze to get through.

I heard the hallway door open and shut, laughter filling the common room. Thinking I might as well be social, I blew out a breath to calm the butterflies in my stomach, then opened my bedroom door. There were three girls in the room—the blonde I’d seen in the library and her two brunette friends. Given Scout’s descriptions, I assumed the blonde was Veronica, the shorter-

haired girl was Amie, the third of my new suitemates, and the girl with longer hair was Mary Katherine, she of the limited intelligence.

The blonde had settled herself on the couch, her long, wavy hair spread around her shoulders,

her feet in Amie’s lap. Mary Katherine sat on the floor in front of them, her arms stretched behind her, her feet crossed at the ankles. They were all in uniform, all in pressed, pleated skirts,

tights, and button- down shirts with navy sweater-vests.

A regiment of officers in the army of plaid.

“We have a visitor,” said the blonde, one blond brow arched over blue eyes.