Chapter One
Eight years ago.
I sit slumped in the chair outside the headteacher’s office as I wait for someone from my coven to arrive. My hands twist in my lap as I pluck at a ragged thumbnail. I wrinkle my nose. Every time I move, a whiff of my failure flies up my nostrils.
I smell like burnt toast and plastic.
I tug at the sleeve of my charred blazer. Parts of the navy jacket are yellowish brown, the polyester fabric has shrunk with the heat and the whole left arm is crispy. My once smart white shirt is smudged with black. I look a state. At least I wasn’t seriously hurt; the quick actions of my teacher saved me—well, physically. Mentally, I’m a mess.
The door leading to the corridor is wrenched open, and she stalks into the room. The door slams behind her. Her violet eyes—the same colour as mine—scan the room until they land on me. “Tuesday,” she whispers in horror.
My skin prickles uncomfortably and the secretary drops her paperwork and sits straighter in her chair.
The woman standing before us is a tiny powerhouse, bubbling with authority. The best witch in her generation. Dressed in an immaculate grey suit, her blonde hair is tied back in a severe knot.
“Hi, Mum.” I drop my eyes to my lap and wrap my arms around myself. I feel like a ten-year-old.
“Are you okay? Did they heal you?” She leans down and her hands flutter in front of me. She finally tucks a strand of burned violet hair behind my ear. “I can fix your hair,” she mutters as she pats my head. She drops her hand and roots through her big, brown handbag, which contains a plethora of potions.
“Mrs Larson?” the secretary interrupts. “The headteacher can see you both now.” The lady smiles kindly at me.
Her kindness makes me uncomfortable—hell, everybody’s kindness makes me feel uncomfortable.
Poor, poor Tuesday.
It’s not anything they say, it’s that look. The pity. Every day it gets worse—silent pity wrapped in poorly veiled disappointment. It seeps into my pores and messes with my head.
It coats my soul with its filth.
I am never going to be good enough.
Oh, and the witch community won’t cast me out. No, they love me. Endless love and understanding. The whole “our love will fix you” thing. It’s nauseating. It drives me fucking nuts.
I hate them for their kindness, which makes me a total shithead. Is it wrong to wish someone would just be angry with me for once? I think I could deal with the anger instead of facing the pity in their eyes when they look at me. Ha! Says the sheltered girl who is yet to live, my inner dialogue helpfully pipes up.
Mum doesn’t pity you.
No, behind closed doors and away from prying eyes, she hates me.
I jump to my feet, almost running away from that thought, and beat my mum to the office door. I’m keen to get this over with. I rap my knuckle against the glass and when I hear the muffled reply, I open the door and head inside.
The headteacher sits behind a heavy wooden desk, and when she sees me, her brown eyes crinkle with concern as she rises from her seat. “Oh dear, the colour coded ingredients didn’t work then.” She nods at mum and thrusts her hand out. “Carol.” A spark of purple magic zaps from her index finger. It meets mum’s answering spark. The witch equivalent of a handshake.
It’s another item on the long list of things that I cannot do. I tuck my hands behind my back and fidget.
“Please, both of you, take a seat.” Once we’re seated, the headteacher returns to her chair. She folds her hands on top of the desk and, with eyes full of sadness, studies me intently.
“Tuesday shouldn’t be doing any dangerous magic,” my mum angrily starts. “Why would you have her doing such complicated spells? She could have been seriously hurt—”
“It was a Don’t Hear Me Now potion.”
Mum deflates, and with a cringe, rubs her face. “Oh.”
“There was no way to predict this would happen. It’s unprecedented.” The headteacher stares at my mum meaningfully and then both women scrutinise me. “I think we can agree that Tuesday’s magiclexia is too much for spell work, and it gives me no joy to tell you her educational needs are becoming disruptive. Carol, it isn’t fair to the rest of the class.”
They are talking about me as if I am not in the room. It doesn’t matter what I think, what I feel. My hand drifts to my sleeve and I pick at a particularly crusty bit as my thoughts drown out their voices.
Magiclexia.
I roll my eyes. It takes everything I have not to throw my hands in the air with exasperation. For them, it always comes back to my brain. It’s never anything to do with my shitty magic. They are convinced I have cognitive difficulties and their poor witchy minds cannot conceive a Larson is simply low on power. That I am a magical dud.
No, there must be something wrong with my brain.
I’m sick of this shit. Sick of the whole “come on Tuesday, if you could just try harder” lecturers, followed swiftly by the sickly sweet “we believe in you, Tuesday.”
If I try any bloody harder, my head is going to pop off. I wish they would all bog off.
Today just proves, yet again, how useless I am. Even with all the help in the world, I still can’t get a simple basic spell correct. I rub my dirty face—crap, I’m missing half my eyelashes. Who’s ever heard of such a benign potion exploding? I am bloody cursed.
I slump further and stare out the window at the school grounds beyond. I wish I could go home and have a shower. I can’t believe I’m sitting here, wearing my shame. My left knee jiggles, and I grind my thigh into the chair to stop the movement. I wish I never had to come back here again. I hate this school.
A crunchy piece of my jacket crumbles in my fingers and flutters to the floor. What sixteen-year-old can pinpoint the exact moment her life fell apart? I can. Everything was going okay until I turned eleven and had to do the entrance exams for this damn school. Yeah, that went well.
For so long, I masked that I was struggling. Magic is hard. It isn’t effortless like it is for my sisters—it makes little sense to me. I just can’t get it. How everyone describes their power doesn’t feel the same to me.
As a kid, I covered up my issues like a pro. I kept my head down, and no one noticed. Looking back, I don’t know how the hell I got away with it. I must have been committed. I found ways around things. A new basic spell at school? I’d, urm, borrow an advanced one from home. The potions were all over the house. It was easy to do a switcheroo, and bam hey presto, my spells were perfect. I smile bitterly.
I only did it a few times. I didn’t see it as being dishonest, not really. I just wanted to be normal. It was a knee jerk reaction. I was just a little girl. Disappointing my mum and being teased by my friends was the worst thing imaginable.
Or so I thought.
I frown and rub my chest. My coven was horrified I’d hidden my issues from them.
I made my mum cry.
They threw money at the problem and hired a specialist teacher. But my wonky, crappy, low powered magic wouldn’t play ball.
Those first few years were so hard, and the damage was done in the eyes of my coven. I went from being a normal kid to a child with special needs.
Worse, I was a thief and a liar.
A rogue tear runs down my cheek and I surreptitiously rub it away.
I swallow and take in a deep breath. The smell of my scorched uniform tickles the back of my throat and I choke a little to stop a cough. What does it matter if my magic is crap? What does it matter in the scheme of things? Yet each failure gets harder to stomach. Each day gets harder to believe—to believe in me.
I hate it.
I HATE IT.
There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t wish I was human.
With these witchy expectations piled so high on top of my chest, I can’t take a full breath.
As if I don’t hear the whispers: She was bred for greatness. What the hell went wrong? Yeah, I am shit. I get that, thanks.
“We can put her in a different class. Perhaps we can try portals next?” With those words, I lift my head and focus back on the conversation. My mum sighs and leans forward as she runs her fingers through her blonde hair.
“Stop,” I whisper. It is as if some demon has taken over my mouth. “Please, just stop. I can’t do this anymore.” My bottom lip wobbles and I viciously bite it, holding it still.
My mum casts me a withering glance. “Tuesday, don’t you think—”
“NO!” I yell. The word echoes around the room as I throw my hands in the air in frustration. My entire body shakes. “It’s like I’m a fish and you’re asking me to climb a tree. I can’t do it. I am a fish, not a… I’M NOT A FUCKING MONKEY!” I slap my hand across my mouth in an attempt to push the swear word back in.
Oh no.
The awkward silence in the room is palpable as both women sit open-mouthed and stare at me. The headteacher, with a shake of her head, snaps her mouth closed.
My mum visibly swallows, and her face goes red. “Tuesday Ann Larson, I will wash your mouth out with a potion if you swear like that again,” she threatens. “I apologise, headteacher, my daughter has been brought up better than that.” She scowls at me.
Doesn’t she understand how frustrated I feel?
“I can’t do this anymore. I won’t.” I vigorously shake my head. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I’ve let you all down.” The chair scrapes against the floor as I push away from the desk and stumble to my feet. “I’m out. I’m done. I give up.” My arms flop to my sides and my chest and throat burns with pain. What they expect is suffocating me.
“I am a fish,” I mutter as I back away.
“Tuesday, what on earth are you talking about?” Mum asks as her beautiful face scrunches up with confusion. She looks at the headteacher as if she can interpret my crazy.
“Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid. It is a quote from Albert Einstein,” I croak, as my vision goes hazy with tears.
I do my best to blink them away, but a sneaky one rolls down the side of my nose and plops onto my dirty shirt. Through a huge burning lump in my throat, I rasp, “Mum, I can’t be your monkey. I can’t do this anymore. I am not… I’m not good enough. I am not strong enough.
“I am not a witch.” With that firm declaration, I turn on my heel, and with as much dignity as I can muster, I walk away.
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