My head smacks the car window as Vivian stops short in front of my school. I rub my neck. I slept for crap last night. Not that it’s anything new; I haven’t slept well since my dad went into a coma.
“Here.” Vivian reaches into the backseat. “Bring these to class. They might soften people up a little and help with the friend problem.” She hands me a box of pastries.
I realize she’s serious. How can I say no? This is a big gesture for her. She must be legitimately worried about me. But seriously…pastries? This isn’t one of her luncheons. If I bring these in on day two of school, it’s only going to make me look like I’m trying too hard. Those girls will jump all over it. The bell rings.
“Thanks.” I try to muster a smile. I grab my stuff and run inside. By the time I turn down my homeroom hallway, there are only a few stragglers in sight. I swing Mrs. Hoxley’s door open just as the second bell sounds.
Everyone is already settled, and the only available spot is next to Susannah—the Descendant whose seat I accidentally took on the first day.
“Just in time, Ms. Mather. With offerings, I see.” Mrs. Hoxley greedily eyes the pastries.
I should have dumped these in the garbage can. “These are just a…well, I thought…um…I brought these.” Great, I sound like a complete idiot. The Descendants laugh as I hand the box to Mrs. Hoxley.
I pull out my strawberry-flavored lip gloss and my notebook with my calendar in it and sit down. Mrs. Hoxley passes around the pastry box. Everyone takes one except for the Descendants. I study my calendar, pretending I’m busy. I can’t help but notice that my birthday is next month.
Sweet sixteen, my ass. I hate my birthday. My parties were so awful when I was little that a rumor started that I was cursed. By eleven, I stopped celebrating altogether. Everything is already so crappy, the last thing I need is more bad luck.
I circle October 27 and cross it out. I put my pen down and glance at the clock. One more minute before I can get out of here. My pen rolls toward the edge of my desk and I make an attempt to grab it, but miss. Susannah doesn’t, though. She catches it midair before it hits the ground.
We lock eyes. Susannah’s dark auburn hair is in another neat bun, and she wears a black lace dress. She reminds me of a ballerina in a weird way. She doesn’t have that mean edge the others do, either. She holds the pen out for me. Her nails are painted black.
“Thanks.”
The bell rings. I shove my notebook in my bag and stand. The Descendants don’t say a word on their way out.
When I’m in the hallway, people watch me. Not in that new-girl way, but in the they-know-something-I-don’t way. So this is what happens when the Descendants don’t like you. I really don’t get the social structure of this school.
I turn the corner toward history class. Alice’s blond ponytail and black blazer peek out from behind an open locker. She moves her hands as she speaks, and I get a glimpse of Susannah’s face. I hug the wall and walk toward them. I mean, I’m going that way anyway.
“I told you to drop it,” Alice says from behind the locker.
“You don’t think it’s strange that John’s great-grandfather died last night?” Susannah asks as I inch closer, trying to hear them over the crowd of students. I pull my schedule out of my back pocket and lean against the lockers to look less conspicuous.
“He was ninety,” Alice says.
“Yeah, but how do you explain—”
“Enough,” Alice says.
“I say we talk to her.”
Alice shakes her head and her ponytail glides across her shoulders. “Not a chance. And don’t think I didn’t see you catch her pen this morning.”
Me? Are they talking about me? I take a step forward. Why would Susannah want to talk to me about someone’s great-grandfather dying?
“So, come on. Out with it,” Jaxon says near my ear.
I jump, sending my elbow into the metal lockers. Alice whips around at the loud clang and finds me two feet away from her, staring in her direction with a guilty look on my face. She narrows her eyes and I quickly walk away from the wall, shifting my gaze to Jaxon. I don’t know why I thought that was a good idea. Stealth is not my thing. And I’m positive Alice is only going to like me less now.
“Out with what?” I reply, walking toward history class and away from Alice at a fast pace.
Jaxon holds the classroom door open for me. “The secret door. What’d you find in there?”
“Truthfully, I didn’t go in.”
“Scared?” His blue eyes light up.
I smile and slide into my seat. “No, we came home late ’cause Vivian dragged me all over town doing errands. And ten minutes after we got home, our lights went out and wouldn’t go back on.”
“So, basically, you were waiting for me to go in with you.”
I feign annoyance at his amused expression.
“Settle, everyone,” says Mr. Wardwell, taking off his blazer and hanging it over his chair. “As many of you probably expect, our AP History class will play an active role in Salem’s annual history fair by doing a historical reenactment. I’ll assign you each a role today.”
Oh no! I can’t even talk in front of my homeroom class of twenty people.
“Also,” continues Mr. Wardwell, “you will write an essay on a specific aspect of the Witch Trials. This is a group assignment; you’ll work in pairs. Your homework tonight is to find a partner and a topic.” He lifts a stack of papers to distribute. “These are the format guidelines.”
This is not my day. Please just let me be a tree, or something else with no lines.
“We are pairing with Ms. Edelson’s honors class for the performance, and the jobs will be distributed equally among you. Don’t argue with me about your specific assignment; this isn’t up for a vote.
“Now, this class is special,” Mr. Wardwell continues, “because we have actual descendants of the main players in the Witch Trials. I think it only apropos they are given the opportunity to play them.”
Halfway through his sentence, my stomach jumps into my throat. No, no, no! This is a horrible idea! My relatives played a big part in those Trials. I can’t do that.
His eyes land on me. “Samantha, I’m not wrong in assuming you’re related to Cotton Mather, am I?” Everyone turns to get a good look at me.
I slide down a few inches in my seat. “Yeah. Um, actually, maybe someone else wants to play him?” The two Descendants in the class take a particular interest in me.
Mr. Wardwell’s forehead wrinkles. “As I said, this isn’t up for debate, Samantha.”
“Sam,” I correct him. “I’m just…really not a performer.”
“This isn’t about winning an acting award, Sam. It’s about celebrating our history. And you will participate if you hope to pass this class.”
Well, that sucked.
“John and Lizzie, you’ll also play your ancestors,” Mr. Wardwell says to the Descendants.
“Great,” says John. He shoots me a nasty look.
Wait. John…was that whose great-grandfather died? I shift uncomfortably in my seat.
“Mr. Wardwell,” says a girl from my homeroom in the front row. Her voice is high-pitched and she grips her stomach. “I need to use the bathroom. It’s an emergency.”
Before he can reply, she runs out of the room with her hand covering her mouth.
“Read your guidelines, and I’ll be back in a moment.” Mr. Wardwell exits the room, following the girl.
“Yo, Jax,” says the guy with the lacrosse jacket sitting in front of me. “You wanna partner on this essay or what?”
“Do you mean, do I wanna write the whole thing while you eat all my food and pass out covered in crumbs on my couch?” Jaxon asks. It’s clear they’re good friends.
“I mean, if you’re offering,” says the guy.
“No, man, I already told Sam I’d be her partner.”
“Lies,” says the guy. “But I don’t blame you. She’s way cuter than me.” He reaches out his hand and I take it. “I’m Dillon.”
“Sam,” I say, and he kisses my hand. I pull it back and he grins. Jaxon shakes his head. Lizzie’s bob swishes in my direction, and she whispers something to John. I’m suddenly regretting listening to Alice’s conversation. I kinda wish I wasn’t on their radar at all.
Mr. Wardwell steps back into the classroom. “Everything’s under control.” He doesn’t make it more than two feet before a guy, also from my homeroom, pushes past him. “Or, apparently not.”
Oh, crap! What are the chances two people from my homeroom are sick? Please let this be a coincidence. Whatever it is, do not let it be those pastries.