Wayward Son (Simon Snow, #2)(17)

“Beethoven?”

“I don’t know his name. With the big wig. There was a film about him.”

“Mozart. You’re saying I look like Mozart.”

“You’ve got to look, Baz, it’s a scream.”

I will not look. I turn towards the mall. I assume Snow follows.



* * *



I look like Mozart. I look like I’m in one of those hair metal bands. (I also look deeply, strangely sunburnt, but I don’t want to risk making that worse with magic.) I point my wand at my hair and cast, “Tidy up!” When that doesn’t do it, I dip my head in the sink.

Fortunately I have the Cheesecake Factory men’s room to myself.

I’d wanted to find a real restaurant for dinner. Surely, Des Moines, Iowa, has real restaurants. But Simon wanted something he’d heard of, something “famously American.” Once he spotted the Cheesecake Factory sign, there was no more discussion.

By the time I leave the loo, I still look like I’m in an ’80s band—but something less metal. Bucks Fizz or Wham!. (My mum was a fiend for Wham!.) I find Snow and Bunce in a giant vinyl booth. Simon is hogging the breadbasket and paging through a menu so lengthy, it’s spiral-bound. Penny is sitting across from him; I’ve seen zombies with more spirit.

“This menu’s staggering,” Simon says. “There’s a whole page of taco salads. They’ve got macaroni and cheese, regular or fried. And every kind of chicken—look, orange chicken.”

I sit next to him. “What’s orange chicken?”

“Does what it says on the tin, I assume.”

When the waitress comes, I order a steak as raw as they’ll allow it. Snow orders the “American Burger.” Bunce says she’ll have “what they’re having.”

“The burger or the steak?” the waitress asks.

“Penny,” Simon says, “you don’t eat beef.”

“Oh,” she says. “Then I’ll have the … I’ll have whatever people have.”

“People like the Buffalo Blasts,” the waitress says.

“Isn’t buffalo still beef?” Simon asks me.

I shrug. I don’t know the first thing about buffalo.

“They’re chicken,” the waitress says. “With buffalo sauce.”

“Fine,” Penny agrees.

“I suppose she can skip the sauce.…” Simon mutters after the waitress has walked away.

I get that Bunce is in a catatonic state, but we really need to talk about our plan now. I need the old Bunce back. With the chalkboards and the diagrams. “So, about tonight,” I say, “I assume we don’t have a place to sleep.”

Snow and I wait for her to answer. She’s staring at a spot between the breadbasket and Simon’s shoulder.

“Right,” I say. “Hand over your mobile, Bunce, I’ll find us a hotel.… Bunce?… Penelope.” She looks up. “Your phone?”

“It died in the car,” she says. “And I couldn’t charge it.”

“Where’s your phone?” Simon asks me.

“It doesn’t work out of the country.”

“Why didn’t you switch it over?”

Because I’m on my parents’ plan, and I didn’t want them to know I was leaving the country, which I don’t want to tell Simon. “Did you switch yours?” I say instead.

“No. I figured you and Penny would.”

Bunce is staring at her lap now.

“Penelope?” Simon asks. “Are you okay?”

“Clearly not,” I whisper.

“Penelope?”

“I want to go home,” she says abruptly.

Simon sits back. “What?”

“This was a mistake.” She’s looking more like her usual bold self, but with a manic edge I don’t like. “I didn’t think this through. I’m sorry.”

“Can we do that?” I ask. “Our tickets—”

“There’s got to be a spell to change them,” she says.

“There isn’t a spell for everything,” Simon says unpleasantly.

She shrugs. “Then we’ll buy new tickets.”

I huff. “We already stole these!”

Bunce won’t be discouraged: “Then you can buy us new ones, Baz—you’re rich.”

It’s not like her to throw my money in my face. “I’m on an allowance,” I say, “and I can’t use my Visa. My parents don’t even know I’m here.”

“Well,” she says, “my parents don’t know I’m here.”

Simon looks hurt. “Why didn’t you guys tell your parents?”

“Because this was a terrible idea, Simon”—Penny’s voice is breaking—“and they would have said no!”

Simon drops his elbows on the table and his forehead on his hands. “Can we even pay for dinner?”

“I’ll pay for dinner,” I say. “But I can’t pay for airline tickets. And we can’t just keep stealing. A youthful indiscretion is one thing—the Coven might overlook that. This is turning into a crime spree.”

“It isn’t a crime spree!” Penny retorts. “We’re not robbing banks and murdering people.”