Witch and Wizard - James Patterson [43]
“Oh goodness,” I said, spying a low, chrome-trimmed building and immediately feeling weak in the knees. “A diner!” The idea of having some comfort food almost made me whimper. “Would it be safe to go in there? Please?”
“Yeah, I guess,” said Jonathan. “Just remember your manners. Think ‘New Order.’ ”
Inside the diner, almost every red-vinyl booth was occupied by grown-ups. A guy in a bleached cap was wiping down a glaringly white counter, over and over and over. We sat down on revolving stools in front of him. My stomach growled, which was more than a little embarrassing.
“Yes?” the counterman asked. “Help you folks?”
“Gosh, mister, it’s hard to decide,” I said, trying to radiate Tattling Weaselness and Jonathanness as best as I could. “May I please have a root-beer float and the cheese-burger deluxe? Thank you.”
“Wisty,” Whit said in a low voice, leaning in close, his breath warm on my ear, “do you feel something… odd? Because I sure do.”
Very casually, I spun on my revolving stool.
I glanced around, but all I saw were people chowing down on burgers, fries, and milk shakes. The New Order anthem—a drone of rigid drumbeats awkwardly mixed with a wailing emo diva—was playing on the jukebox. Ew. You know things have gotten bad when military marches pass for pop music.
Then one particular woman caught my eye. Lots of mascara, very big hair. She gave me a weird look. Then she turned back to the other folks at her booth. Two middle-aged women with way too much face paint, and also big hair.
“Yes,” I whispered. “The one with a spool of spidery hair. Two others just like her. They’re watching us.”
“She’s a witch,” I heard a voice say then. I froze in midrevolution on my stool. The tiny hairs on my arms stood up like New Age troopers.
The counterman looked up from his obsessive cleaning and frowned as if a shot had been fired.
“What did you say, Mrs. Highsmith?” he asked.
“That obnoxiously red-haired girl there. She’s a witch,” said Mrs. Highsmith more forcefully. It was the same woman who’d been looking at me. “And that blond boy—the handsome one—there’s something not right about him either!”
She could tell I was a witch—because she was one too.
Chapter 70
Wisty
“TAKES ONE TO KNOW ONE,” I retorted.
Actually, I didn’t say that at all. I’d learned a thing or two about controlling myself since being arrested and sentenced to death. So I made my eyes go circular and wide and did some of the best acting of my life.
“Where?” I gasped, spinning on my stool. I searched up and down the diner, looking fearfully at everyone.
“My sister’s certainly not a witch!” said Whit, looking convincingly astonished. Hunks are great at that, especially sincere ones—trust me. I’ve been living with Whit’s act since I was an infant.
“This girl was just named Sector Leader’s Star of Honor,” Jonathan said. He was pretty good too.
“Maybe… maybe Mrs. Highsmith is imagining things?” I said. “Maybe she… sees things? Is that possible? Hmm? Mrs. Highsmith, do you have visions?”
Now all eyes were on the woman and her shady lady friends. She flushed bright red. “Just test her!” she said in a loud, shrill voice.
“I’d be happy to take a test,” I said quickly. “If you take one too.”
Everyone was real quiet, waiting to see what she’d do next. All of a sudden, anger washed over me. If she knew what it meant to be different, why would she persecute others like herself?
“It’s not me, it’s her!” said Mrs. Highsmith.
Now people in the diner were starting to murmur, clearly suspicious.
In my mind, I conjured up a picture of her table. I saw her metal fork, where it rested on the napkin by her plate.
“My dad says not to talk to people like her,” Jonathan said, sliding off his stool and backing toward the door. Whit and I got up too. “Come on, guys. We’re done here. Let’s report this place.”
In the next half second, I saw her fork, felt it, and knew in my mind what I needed to do with it.