Page 81 of How to Flirt with a Witch

He leans down, squinting at me. “Hey, kiddo! Wow, looks nice there. How was class?”

“Um…” The memory of Oaklyn trying to stuff me into the back of her car flashes across my mind—and Natalie coming to save me, and the two of them hurling bits of earth at each other. “Fine.”

Mom angles her head back so she’s looking down at the screen through her reading glasses. “You look skinny and pale. Have you been eating your vegetables?”

I sigh. Okay, maybe I’m notthathomesick.

“I’m eating well, Mom. I’m just a little tired from…” I trail off. From what, the holiday break? One day of class? Time to get into what’s on my mind. “Anyway, I was wondering something.”

Dad sits beside Mom, both of them leaning in with interest.

A flutter of anticipation fills me. First, I want to find out if there’s a reason behind my ability—a connection to magic somehow. “Do we have anything weird or interesting in our lineage? Anyone who can do or see… supernatural things…?”

Dad’s brow furrows. “What the hell are you talking about?”

His blunt words yank me back to reality. Do I think I’m going to suddenly learn that Dad’s great-great-grandma comes from Salem? Heat floods my cheeks.

Feeling like an airhead, I mumble, “Never mind.”

Mom hums and puts a finger to her lips. “We did have shamans on my mother’s side.”

My eyes widen. “Are you serious?”

She breaks out into laughter. “No. Is this for a project or something?”

Dad joins her in chuckling, nudging her playfully.

I scowl at them. “Yeah, a project.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.” Mom tilts her head. “We’re farmers through and through.”

“Except for your ol’ Uncle Bill,” Dad says. “He could talk to the dead. Every Thursday was graveyard night.”

“Okay, okay.” I roll my eyes as they burst into laughter again. They’ve always had the same infuriating sense of humor. “Sorry I asked.”

A scuffle comes from off-camera, and they turn.

“We’re talking to Katie,” Mom says. “Come say hi.”

“Hi,” Nicky says, deadpan.

“Hey dude!” Pearl calls.

They come over with their backpacks on, home from school. Pearl is in a pair of my overalls I left behind, and Nicky is in a cute argyle sweater and jeans—going for a preppy look this term, I guess. She changes her style every few months, depending on who she’s friends with.

“How was—” Mom starts, but they’re already talking over each other.

“I’m not in any of the same classes as Angela,” Nicky says, dumping her bag and going to raid the fridge.

“I have theworstFrench teacher,” Pearl says. “Most of us can speak French better than she can, and she’s theteacher. Also, she has bad breath. I don’t even want to take French.”

“You might need it,” Dad says. “Being bilingual is a requirement for a lot of government jobs.”

“I don’t want a government job.”

While Pearl plunks down so she fits in the frame with my parents, Nicky flits in and out of the background, making a snack.

Mom turns her attention to me. “Pearl has to decide whether to apply to university within the next couple of weeks. She doesn’t know what she wants to do.”