Witcha Gonna Do? (Witchington #1)(2)
It is wild out there. Trust me.
While waiting for my mystery date, I decide to scan WitchyGram to see how my efforts are going to bring my family, the Sherwoods, into the modern world of social media and make one of the most powerful (okay, and snobbiest) families in the Witchingdom more relatable.
Social media manager isn’t exactly the job most people would expect a Sherwood to have. My family is basically the Tom Bradys of witchery—really good for a really long time. Jealous people are always accusing us of having cheated to gain political power, and yeah, Deflategate shenanigans did not help that belief, but still, it was a constant public image battle, which meant that for once my no-magic-having skills came in handy.
So while the rest of my family does the big magical things to make sure everything happens according to society’s rules, I run the family social media account on WitchyGram under the watchful eye of my parents. Like really watchful, uber-controlling, all-seeing eye, because they are always expecting me to mess up. Okay, so that has happened a time or twenty—hello, posted pic of Mom mid-spell with her face making the most hysterical expression where her cheeks were puffed out and her eyes crossed. Sure, it wasn’t exactly flattering, but it is our most viral post to date, and that is the whole point—making the most powerful family in Witchingdom a little more relatable and showcasing how awesome the Sherwoods are while I stay as far out of the photo frame as possible.
It’s not that my family doesn’t love me, it’s just that having an outré in their midst doesn’t exactly prop up the whole superpowerful-witches image my family wants everyone to have of us. An outré isn’t seen as an exception that proves the rule of the Sherwood power, it is seen by some as the crack in the family lineage that proves the rot within.
That’s something I’m reminded of every time I have to go through and clean up the comments people make in response to the family social media posts. Today’s bit of ugly snark wasn’t any different from the usual.
“A real witch of power would be able to spell a child out of being an outré.”
“The Sherwoods should be ashamed of letting that Matilda monstrosity out in the world. Hiding away outrés was good enough for my generation, it should be good enough for this generation.”
“Freaks and Cheats: The Sherwood Family History.”
I may not be magic, but my delete-and-block reaction time is faster than you can say abracadabra—which no one really does anymore (a total pity, because it is such a fun word to say). I had to get quick with my see-ya-asshole reflexes because it makes up about fifty percent of my job. Everyone’s a brave jerk from the safety of the Internet.
It used to be that each one of the poisoned-prick comments would leave me raw with my heart scraped up. I wish I could say that they don’t bother me at all anymore, but that would be a lie. The reality is somewhere in the middle. The truth is, I’m a dud and the whole world loves to point that out as if I’m confused about it.
Hate to break it to those folks, but I have been aware of my shortcomings since birth. They’re pretty impossible to miss.
I get to work under the power of my feet, not the snap, crackle, pop of magic like everyone else. I can’t spell cast or read the tarot cards properly or hop from cloud to cloud across the horizon. I’m a freak, a weirdo, an outré. I’m the lone deviant in the entire city of Wrightsville, the whole of the Sherwood family tree, and (as far as I know) all of Virginia.
However, if I think about that too much, my skin gets hot, my palms sweat, and I’m looking for the closest exit so I won’t do something even more un-Sherwood-like than being an outré—crying in public.
Instead, I exhale all the negativity and remember the good things in my life, such as my magical misfits support group, movie nights with my sisters, and the taste of warm eye of newt muffins—really, if they don’t have them at your coffee shop, you sooooooo need to request them.
Per usual, once my lungs are empty of oxygen, I’ve pushed all that hate away as much as I can. I’m again ready to ignore the sometimes curious and sometimes cruel stares from people on the street and hold tight to my hope that there is a place for me in this world, even if it’s just a small spot on the edge of being acceptable.
It’s that little nugget of hope that explains why I’m here at Salem’s, sitting at an awkward angle to avoid the dragon’s blood tree sap and hoping that maybe this date will be the one that changes everything. As if the universe is listening in on my thoughts, the bell over the bakery’s door jingles. The air around me shivers.
It could be him!
Keeping my eyes on my phone, I exit out of the WitchyGram app and inhale a long, calming, please-let-this-be-thereal-thing deep breath.
Realizing too late the mistake I’ve just made.
The foul stench of the dragon’s blood tree fills my lungs. The scent of moldy leftovers and rancid milk is palpable enough I can taste it on my tongue. I gag. I cough. All the oxygen flees my lungs, leaving me spluttering for breath. My eyes water so much I can barely see. All I can make out of the blurry figure rushing toward me is that he has broad shoulders and is really tall.
He grabs me by the arm—hello, Mr. Firm, Strong Hands—and hauls me up from my chair and away from the tree. From the impact of him thwacking me on the back with his palm as I continue to fight for breath, I have no doubt that the size of his hands matches the rest of him. It takes a minute—and garners the attention of every witch in the bakery (many of whom have their phone cameras trained on me, oh yay, Mom’s gonna love that)—but thanks to the help of my date, I finally catch my breath and regain my vision.