Homecoming by Scott Tracey Page B

about the last time you tried enchanting the telephone.”
    â€œAccidents,” I dismissed. “I’ve got it under control now. I mean, for God’s sakes, I’m sixteen! I’m almost an adult.”
    â€œAnd what happens when you have another episode?”
    That quieted me. We were at two weeks since the last episode right now, and that was a record. I don’t think I’ve ever made it three weeks without a minor flare-up.
    â€œIt’s one night,” I said, though we both knew the fight was over. He’d won. Again.
    â€œLet me know when you’re finished with the reading, then we’ll get back into talking about World War II.” He turned his attention back to the newspaper.
    â€œWhatever,” I snapped, storming out of the room.
    Â¤ ¤ ¤
    The best part of being homeschooled was the randomness of it. Some days, John was all business and other days I didn’t see him for hours at a time. He liked to experiment—taking old spells that he’d read about, and modernizing them. So he got to play with the primordial forces of the universe, and I got to read ten chapters of Mark Twain.
    Like today. John disappeared into his study and muttered something about “finishing the reading.” But he didn’t say “right now” or even what reading he was talking about. It was pretty clear that he was actually giving me the afternoon off. So I went hiking instead.
    Our house was this rugged, unassuming little log cabin on about a thousand acres. One path cut through the woods to a convenience store about half a mile away on the highway. But I wasn’t in the mood for shopping, so I went in the opposite direction, down the paths that led away from Garroway.
    I was halfway down the main path when I heard them. Voices. I stopped in my tracks, closed my eyes, and really tried to listen. Sometimes, in my head, I think that being a witch is the same thing as being Daredevil, and all my other senses will instantly enhance if I just close my eyes, or really pay attention for a second.
    Of course, real life doesn’t work that way.
    â€œ...their own fault for not turning on the A/C.”
    â€œShut up, Derek,” came the laughing reply. “Did you grab the cooler?”
    I recognized the second voice immediately. Caleb Evans. Junior class badass and all around rebel. He and Derek were the prime suspects in the mailbox beatings. It seemed like everyone in town knew who he was. Which I didn’t entirely understand, because he didn’t play sports, win awards, or do anything to stand out from the crowd. He just did . In the movies, there was always some reason why the popular people were popular: they were rich, jocks, or born leaders. Caleb didn’t fit the mold.
    â€œAren’t we near the freak’s place?”
    I froze where I stood, my heart already sinking in my chest.
    â€œGive it a rest,” Caleb replied, his tone bored. “So the kid’s homeschooled.”
    â€œThat’s not it. My dad was telling me he has some sort of eye deformity.”
    Caleb yawned, dramatically.
    â€œNo, I swear! I heard he was shooting meth into his tear ducts and now his eyes are all rotted and stuff.”
    Caleb snorted. “You’re an idiot if you believe that. That kid’s no meth addict.”
    â€œYeah, like you’d know,” Derek scoffed. I heard a bit of rustling, so I stepped back carefully, pressing myself up against one of the sweeping Ponderosa pines that filled the forest. I only know what they’re called, because in addition to being the state tree of Montana, apparently they’re extremely good for defensive spells. Our house was built out of Ponderosa—I think it was the reason John bought it. I’ve tried asking why it was so important to him, but he always changed the subject.
    â€œWhere are the girls at, anyways?” They were closer now. I don’t know why I thought hiding