Spellbound - Cara Lynn Shultz [82]
Brendan jumped forward but with one meaty hand, Mr. Caruso pushed him back, hitting him square in the chest. “Watch it, Salinger, this is my job,” Mr. Caruso warned him before grabbing Anthony by the collar and dragging him out. We overheard his unflappable lawyer’s voice on the way out. “We’ll go clean out your locker and that’s it, Anthony, this is the last straw. I’ve done all I can to help you. You’ll have a nice vacation at home before we decide on boarding schools for the second semester.”
I slumped back into the chair. Last straw? What else has he done that we didn’t even know about?
Principal Casey called us back into her office, and shaken, I followed the Salingers and Aunt Christine into the room, where there was, indeed, a large dent in the wall. Likely from the now-broken folding chair, which was stowed away in the corner.
Principal Casey was brief: Brendan and I were not officially “suspended”—just asked to leave school grounds for the rest of the day, until the gossip died down. Yeah, fat chance. It would just mean people could gossip without having to worry if we heard them.
I got off with a warning. Because he was already in trouble for fighting on the basketball court, Brendan was put on probation—and Anthony was expelled, effective immediately.
After Christine and Mrs. Laura Salinger exchanged awkward goodbyes—and Brendan mouthed, “I’ll call you later”—I was at Angelique’s locker, stuffing her books into the spare tote bag she had crammed into the back of her locker. Christine had asked me to be home by dinner so we could discuss the day’s events, but since she was already late for some theater charity group she was heading, she left me at school. She had already promised Dr. Tedt that I’d bring Angelique’s books home, so I needed to complete that mission.
So much for a romantic first day as boyfriend and girlfriend.
Chapter 16
I arrived at Angelique’s apartment on the West Side of Manhattan about an hour later. Angelique lived in a standard New York City high-rise on the corner of Tenth Avenue and Fifty-first Street. It looked like any number of skyscrapers that began littering the New York skyline in the ’70s. I don’t know why I was half-expecting an ancient stone corridor, dimly lit by flaming torches; instead, fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as I walked through the beige hallway until I reached a red-painted metal apartment door.
Angelique answered the door in black sweatpants and an oversize tie-dyed T-shirt that screamed “I Love It in Florida!” in glittery orange lettering.
“So, you love it in Florida?” I asked dryly, eyeing the bright shirt.
“Shut up. It’s comfy,” she pouted in a stuffy voice, holding open the door so I could enter the living room. It was bright and airy, filled with sand-colored fabric couches and a pale wood entertainment center. Only on closer inspection did I notice the tiny telltale signs that this was a witch’s lair, so to speak—crystals scattered throughout the apartment, and antique books that resembled Hadrian’s Medieval Legends crowding the bookshelves. I dropped Angelique’s books on a cornflower-blue recliner and followed her into the adjoining eat-in kitchen.
“Sorry I’ve been MIA,” Angelique said, pouring herself a glass of orange juice and sitting on the counter. “I only checked my voice mail today—I’ve been in bed since Friday night.”
“Blame Mr. Emerson,” I suggested.
“I do! He never takes sick days. Anyway, sorry I was out of commission,” she said again, then added, “It sounds like you could have used my expertise.”
“That’s okay. Are you feeling better?” I leaned against the windowsill, trying to act nonchalant as I nervously started picking at my freshly painted nail polish.