"The fact remains, dear, that you did set a girl on fire."
"Just her ponytail, the hair will grow back," Myrtle said from the passenger seat of her mother's car. "And besides, I only singed an inch."
"Where did you even get the lighter, Myrtle?"
That was a bit harder to answer so she said nothing. That was her father's advice. The daughter of a social, high society lawyer and a housewife, she knew how and when to be quiet and this was one of those times she elected to plead the fifth.
"I suppose it's not important. We should just be thankful they aren't pressing charges. I couldn't bear the shame of it, darling. You know how delicate I am in these situations," her mother fixed an uneven spot in her makeup in the rear view mirror.
Myrtle rolled her eyes and sunk a bit deeper into the seat. 'Don't shame the family is like the founding principle of this stupid, sexist household,' she mused to herself.
They came up to the large white house on the right—an extravagant and glorious place with three stories and four massive white pillars out front. It screamed high class and Myrtle felt her stomach grow sour. It was exactly the kind of place that radiated decadence and expensive taste, nothing humble about it, and under normal circumstances she didn't pay it much attention. Perhaps it was the gardener in the front yard that caused her to truly look at how disillusioning it all was. No one should live in a house so large when there were people starving in Vietnam. Some people had nothing, but Myrtle was repulsed to have it all.
"Ugh, who's car is that?! It's ghastly…"
A Volkswagen beetle was parked up ahead, by no means in terrible condition, but it did look low-class and out of place in front of the mansion. Myrtle was instantly curious, not because the car was out of place, but because it was the most fascinating and garish shade of orange. A smile threatened the corners of her lips, simply because it had caused her mother ire. She never tired of spiting that woman.
They rolled up into the driveway where Myrtle was the first to step out with her bag. Her mother hurried inside as if she might be spotted in the yard by the neighbors and be forced to acknowledge the presence of the orange car, but Myrtle watched from the drive as three people got out and approached her specifically.
"Myrtle Snow?"
"Yes?" she asked, slightly aloof as always.
"Be a dear and show us in. We've got something to discuss with you and your mother."
Her brow furrowed. "Is this about Georgine Marshall because if it is, you can speak with my father when he gets home in two hours." Defense came naturally to her. It was in her blood.
"Yes, I suppose it is, just a little, but more importantly, it's about you. We'd like to offer you a place alongside your sister witches at a prestigious boarding school in New Orleans."
Myrtle hesitated. "Come in but be quick about it so the neighbors don't see or my mother will have a fit."
She led them inside and flopped her schoolbag down beside the grand staircase. "Mother, there are people here to see us."
"Company at this hour?!" Her voice was shrill as if the house hadn't been cleaned. It was a joke, such an utter joke. The wood floors were spotless enough to eat off of and even the rugs could've been picnicked on. Her mother came rushing out from the kitchen as if she were afraid of being caught and singled out as a terrible hostess.
"Settle down mother, you're embarrassing," Myrtle muttered.
"Don't mumble, dear, it's low class." Finally the woman looked her guests over—three women who looked middle class at best and one of whom was so plump it seemed indulgent and disgusting, but Myrtle found them fascinating. "We weren't expecting company."
"It is of no consequence to us, Mrs. Snow, this will only take a few moments of your time."
"Myrtle, dear, why don't you show them into the sitting room while I fetch us all some lemonade."
Myrtle did this wordlessly as she'd done many times and allowed the three women to sit on the sofa while she saved the chair for her mother and herself.
"So. Who are you people?"
"We're the Witches Council dear. I'm Amelia Trimble," the oldest of the three women introduced herself first and then gestured to her left, "this is Cassandra Whitby," and then to her right, "and Franny Kent."
"We've come to collect you," Ms. Whitby said with a pleasant, southern accent.
"Here we are," Myrtle's mother arrived with the lemonade and placed the tray down on the coffee table. "Now, who do we have the pleasure of meeting today?"
Myrtle explained and then fell quiet for a moment. "What I don't understand is what you meant outside. You're not here about Georgine Marshall, but you're here to take me away…"
"Don't put it like that, dear. We're not kidnapping you, the choice is entirely yours," Ms. Kent insisted.
"But where will you take me?"
"Miss Robichaux's Academy." Ms. Whitby spoke again with that enchanting voice of hers. "It's a boarding school for exceptionally gifted young ladies such as yourself."
"What do you mean by—" Myrtle couldn't even finish her sentence.
"An academy? Well she absolutely must go. Myrtle, think of the prestige…"
Myrtle rolled her eyes and her head dropped into her hands. "What kind of academy is it? Not that I'm not flattered by the opportunity," she tried to be polite and straightened in her chair. "But what sets it apart from everywhere else?" she asked.
"Well, it's a school for girls with gifts like yours. Take for instance Georgine Marshall's hair…"
"That was an… You can't prove anything," Myrtle felt her temper rising. The principal had her locker searched for a lighter and found nothing he could incriminate her with.
"The particulars of how don't concern us, Myrtle. You have a gift. A very exceptional and unusual one. The teachers at Miss Robichaux's Academy could teach you how to use that gift, should you wish."
Myrtle watched them suspiciously for a moment. "Are you insane? You think I actually…"
"No, dear. We know you did. No one in this room is upset with you."
Myrtle chewed on her lip anxiously. "Are you saying I'm…I'm not…"
"You're a witch, dear. A member of a coven, and an important one too."
"A witch?!" Her mother looked incredulous. "How am I supposed to explain that to our friends!"
"Ugh, mother. You cannot be serious."
"No one needs to know a thing, Mrs. Snow. All you tell them is that your daughter has gone to a prestigious boarding school in New Orleans. I'm sure that will suffice to answer their questions."
"No one said I'm going anywhere!" Myrtle responded loudly to being talked over. She stood up, afraid of what all this meant. "I don't want to be some Samantha Stephens, how am I supposed to explain such a thing to my future husband—"
"That's not what you want though, is it dear?" Ms. Trimble looked at her with kind eyes as if she were peering into her soul. "You want to be in charge of your own life, don't you? Always have. You've never agreed with this lifestyle and you don't think it will agree with you either."
"Myrtle, what is she talking about?"
Myrtle sat, staring at the woman, unsure of how she knew but suddenly feeling calmer just to have some truth out in the open. "I…I…"
"You can be anyone you want to. The door is wide open for you to come and join us. Learn how to control your ability. After that…the choice is yours."
"I don't understand!" her mother was shrieking as if she was at gunpoint.
"Sold."
Myrtle Snow simply smiled.