Spellcaster. Cara Shultz LynnЧитать онлайн книгу.
I opened my mouth to correct them—a few papers had gotten my name wrong—but then a brilliant idea came to me. Lie. Of course. Why don’t I just lie?
“You know, I get that a lot.” I laughed casually, darting a quick glance out of the street-facing windows. Brendan was out of sight, talking to a basketball teammate on his phone around the corner. Liam had called him with some kind of crisis, forcing Brendan to wait outside while I grabbed a drink—ice cream made me thirsty. “I think it’s just that we both have long dark hair.”
“But you know her, right?” Shorty pressed. “I mean, you go to the same school.”
I was about to lie again, but then I remembered that Brendan had lent me his basketball team sweatshirt, since it was chilly out—and it bore the blue-and-gray Vincent Academy insignia.
“I’ve seen her in the halls and stuff.” I shrugged, feigning indifference. “I don’t know her-know her.” And then a flash of inspiration came to me.
“But I’ve heard she’s cool,” I said. I briefly considered constructing some elaborate story about “Emily” saving orphans and nuns and kittens and maybe even a baby panda bear from a burning building. Instead I went with, “She’s supposed to be really nice.”
“She’d have to be.” Shorty—clearly the ringleader of this little trio—sniffed in a knowing tone before leaning in to me conspiratorially. “That’s how I knew you weren’t her. I saw the pic the Post ran. You’re, like, way prettier than that Emily person. Not like that’s saying a whole lot.”
I grimaced internally as Shorty threw her head back and laughed at her own joke, her dirty blond curls bouncing with every cackle. A few papers had run our photos along with the story—the pics from our school IDs. The horrible, slack-jawed photo made me look like a zombie who just staggered out of a George Romero movie. Brendan, of course, looked like he casually sauntered out of some carefully cast reality show about high school rock stars. And I looked like I wanted to eat his brains. Fantastic.
“She’s so much cuter in person,” I muttered.
“She’d have to be!” Shorty snickered and leaned closer again with a confidential whisper, as if we were best friends, all of a sudden. “I mean, that guy Brendan is hot as hell. He hooked up with my friend at a party last summer. That Emily girl was nothing special.”
The trio laughed as I bit back a snort. Nothing special? How many newbie witches have you met in bodegas, Shorty?
“Yeah, I guess.” I excused myself as gracefully as I could, the girls’ gushing about Brendan’s finer qualities mercifully silenced as the sticker-covered door to the bodega slammed shut behind me.
I took a swig of my iced tea, checking my reflection in the store window—I know someone who thinks you’re special—before rounding the corner to meet him, more irritated at the reminder of Brendan’s past conquests than anything.
My little storm cloud of anger dissipated as soon as I saw him leaning against the rough brick building behind him. He had just gotten a haircut, but I only knew this because he’d told me. His thick black locks were as unruly as ever, hanging into his piercing green eyes.
“There’s my girl,” he said, the corner of his mouth pulling up into a sly, sexy smirk. Even though there was a slight chill in the March air, thanks to a forecasted rainstorm, Brendan kept his black wool jacket hanging open, the school uniform’s white button-down shirt concealing all the goodies that were underneath. I flicked his black tie away impatiently and rested my hands on the line of white buttons, trying not to think about how much more I liked this shirt when it was crumpled up in the corner of his bedroom two weeks ago. I couldn’t help it: Brendan was abs-olutely pec-tacular, horrible puns intended and very accurate.
“Everything okay with Liam?” I asked, and Brendan nodded, an amused smile breaking out across his face.
“So you know how he got into a fight during last night’s game?” I nodded as Brendan chuckled at the memory of how he and another player, Frank, had to hold Liam back from a mouthy player from Xavier High School. “Well, it was just some overheated shoving match, but little ol’ Liam’s freaking out. He thinks Coach Dunn’s going to kick him off the team or suspend him or something.”
“Do you really think he could get kicked off for that?” Liam was one of the few sophomores on the team, but he was still pretty impressive on the court.
“Nah, he’ll be fine.” Brendan shook his head dismissively. “Maybe he’ll get benched for a game, that’s it. He’s just worried ’cause he’s pretty new to the team. I mean, I got into a full-blown fistfight this year and I’m still on the team.”
Brendan paused, then added smugly, “That was before you moved here. I knocked the guy out with one punch, you know.”
I smiled indulgently. “Yes, I heard all about it, Braggy McBraggerson.”
“Hey, that guy tripped me and then took a swing at me! I was merely acting in my own defense.” Brendan pretended to be offended, holding his palms out innocently. “Liam will be fine—besides, it wasn’t his fault. So after I told him to stop acting like a whiny little girl, I told him what to say to Coach Dunn, and to go right ahead and use me as an example. After all, Dunn only suspended me. It’ll work out—if not, I’ll go to Dunn myself and threaten to quit or something.”
“You would do that for him?” My jaw dropped. Brendan was definitely one of the best players on the team—and he absolutely adored playing. It was one of the only things he liked about our school. As wealthy as his own family was, Brendan disregarded most students at Vince A, considering them all to be arrogant social-climbing snobs. And for the most part they were.
“It won’t come to that, but why not? He’s a good kid.” He shrugged nonchalantly.
I couldn’t help it, a big goofy smile spread across my face at the kind way he’d taken the sophomore under his wing. “Aw, look at you,” I murmured, tugging on his black tie. “You’re so cute.”
“Ugh, come on, Em. Don’t call me cute!” Brendan wrinkled his nose up, saying the word as if it pained him to pronounce it. “You say it the same way you talk about baby otters and those kitten videos you like. Guys don’t like to be called cute.”
I rolled my eyes. “Okay, you’re so awesome and can bench-press a bus and do a billion push-ups,” I drawled. “You’re not cute or sweet at all. Better?”
“So much better.” He chuckled, and I continued teasing him.
“You’re the original badass. You can roundhouse kick a quarter and get five nickels.” I held my fists up in the pose I’d learned from my kickboxing class, which I’d started taking after I healed from the winter dance, and pretended to kick Brendan.
“Oh, check it out, the mini-ninja has jokes,” he teased, blocking my weak, halfhearted kick with his forearm. “Are you done making fun of me yet?”
“No, but I’ll be nice and let you continue your story where you’re not at all cute or sweet about Liam. The horror!” I stood back upright, grinning as Brendan gently tugged on the cowlick in my bangs.
“You’re too much,” he said, shaking his head at me and smiling. “And so what if I’m friends with Liam? He’s a good kid.” Brendan tilted his head, giving me one of his signature flirty smiles. “You know, you really should stop making fun of me, because it’s all your fault, anyway.”
“What’s my fault?”
“Me, actually liking people at Vince A.”
“What a tragedy,” I deadpanned.
“Oh, it is,” Brendan insisted, his eyes open in mock horror. “I’m losing my cred. Next I’ll be voted prom king.” He shuddered at the thought and I laughed at the mental image. If that crown was placed on his unruly dark head, the heavens would open up and he’d get trampled by the Four