USMA - Chapter 2

Title: USMA: The United States Magical Academy
Author: Ginny Powell
Rating: G
Feedback: Of course!
Disclaimer: I have absolutely no claim on anything from or about the Harry Potter universe. But then, he's not even in this story!
Summary: There must be an American school for the magically inclined – what might it be like?
Thanks: To whoever it was that suggested Roswell would be the obvious place for an American school of magic (e-mail me, so I can credit you properly); to my seven-year-old daughter, who thought up the portkey system and dearly wants to go to the USMA; and, of course, to Jo for coming up with such a fascinating universe that I can't help but embellish in my own way.

Chapter 2 – The Magically Gifted

"I know this is something of a shock for you," Mr. Smith was saying.  They were all four sitting in the Colemans' living room.  Mr. and Mrs. Coleman did indeed look shocked, sitting staring numbly forward, occasionally blinking hard.  Georgia also looked shocked, but there was also something like hope on her face.

"The transition phase if often difficult for non-magical families.  But that's why I'm here, to ease that process.  That's what orientation is all about, really.  We want to answer all your questions, ease all your concerns, before we open up this brave new world for your talented daughter, here."  He smiled at Georgia, whose return smile was only a little forced.  He seemed like a nice man, and sincere, if a little too salesman-ish.  "So let me start by-"

"Now just hang on a minute," Dad roused himself enough to interrupt.  "You're asking us to believe that Georgia is a- a witch?"

"We don't like to use such labels, Mr. Coleman.  We find that they have too many negative connotations.  We prefer 'magically-gifted.'  Whereas you and Mrs. Coleman are, if you'll pardon the expression, 'magically-challenged.'  Nothing to be ashamed of; many of our parents are.  The magical gene is recessive, you see, so-"

"But there's no such thing as magic!"

"I understand how you feel, Mr. Coleman.  It is hard to believe when you are first exposed to it.  But I'm sure you'll agree that there are many things in the world that are difficult to explain.  Once you come to understand magic, you may find that the world makes a lot more sense, rather than less as you are currently worried."  Mr. Coleman seemed about to interrupt once more, so Mr. Smith decided it was time to move on to the next bit.  "Perhaps a bit more in the way of demonstration."

Mr. Smith turned to the fireplace at the far end of the room.  He pulled some sort of stick out of the breast pocket of his blazer – a wand, Georgia realized with some excitement.  Pointing it, he murmured "Incendio".  A line of sparks flew from the tip of his wand to the cold hearth.  When they hit the decorative pile of wood, it caught flame in a burst of purple and turquoise.  He turned back to the family, one eyebrow raised questioningly.

"Parlor trick," Mr. Coleman said dismissively.  Mrs. Coleman looked a little, but not too much, impressed.  Georgia whispered "Cool."

"All right, something else," Mr. Smith said quietly, gesturing offhandedly at the flames.  They flickered out.  His gaze caught on a bookshelf behind one of the couches.  "Accio!" he commanded, once more pointing the wand.  A large book flew from the shelf into Mr. Smith's waiting hand.

Mr. Coleman still seemed unimpressed.  Even Georgia just shrugged; she was sure she'd seen something like that in an old movie starring Val Kilmer.

"Okay, then."  Mr. Smith seemed to cast about the room.  Then, spotting something, he rose, slowly so as not to be threatening, and picked up a small trophy from a side table.  A tiny ballet dancer stood frozen en pointe at its top.  "If I may?" he asked Georgia, for it was her trophy.  She nodded; it was one of those "everybody gets a trophy, even if they suck" things that were more to make the parents think they got their money's worth than for the kids.

Mr. Smith smiled his thanks.  He looked around, making sure he had everyone's attention, then touched the tip of his wand to the tiny dancer and declared "Anima!"  There was a tinkling sound as the ballerina suddenly began to pirouette, her tiny golden arms moving gracefully over her head.  Georgia watched as though entranced.  Mr. Smith carried the trophy closer, until she was dancing right under Mr. Coleman's nose.  When she began a series or arabesques, he leaned back suddenly.

"Enough with the tricks already," he waved at the still too close ballerina.  Mr. Smith obligingly gestured with his wand, went to put the once more frozen trophy back.  "Even if I were to believe that this is all real – which I'm not! – what does all this have to do with Georgia?  She's just a regular little girl."

Mrs. Coleman nodded emphatically, reaching over to place a protective hand on her daughter's knee.  Georgia just rolled her eyes; she hated being called a "little girl."

Mr. Smith smiled.  "I realize that this is all a big surprise for you, Mr. and Mrs. Coleman," he said gently.  "But I think you'll find that for Georgia, it's not a surprise at all.  You've always known you were different, haven't you?  That you could do magic?"

All eyes turned to Georgia.  She felt as though she'd just been shoved into a fishbowl.

"Go on, tell them about some of the things you've done.  It's okay," Mr. Smith urged.

Georgia looked down at her hands, trying to get up the courage to tell.  If I don't, Mr. Smith will, she told herself.  No point in denying it now.

"I-  I levitated Pep, out of the pool."

"Yeah, I saw that in that email," Dad said.  "Bunch o' bull.  This is serious, honey, don't lie to us."

"Mom," Georgia went on, turning to her mother, unable to meet her father's accusing, sad eyes.  "Do you remember a few days ago, when you told me to clean up my room, and I did?"

"Yes, honey, but what does-"

"Don't you remember?  I did it in, like, two minutes, and you were so amazed."

"Yes, it was rather quick, but I thought-"

"Mom, I got so angry at you, 'cause you weren't gonna let me go to the movies, remember?  And all the sudden, poof, everything just jumped off the floor and put itself away.  Like that."  Georgia snapped her fingers.

"Proof!  There's no proof!"  Mr. Coleman threw up his hands.  "All this stuff just conveniently happens when nobody's around, and we're just supposed to believe it?!"

"Dad, what about Pep-"

"We covered that already."

"No, I mean, how we got him," Georgia said hurriedly, so he couldn't interrupt.  "Remember the stuffed animal I had, that looked just like him?  And how I just happened to lose it the day I found Pep?"

"What are you saying?" Mrs. Coleman asked warily.

Georgia didn't answer.  She just leaned over to where Pep was sitting by her feet.  Gently, she pushed him onto his side, then his back.  He obliged, panting happily.  She traced her finger along a line on his stomach that looked something like a zipper.  "Remember the stuffed Pep had a music box inside, and this is where you put the batteries."

Mrs. Coleman leaned over to look.  "Honey, that's just where he was spayed."

"Mom, he's a boy."

"Oh.  Yes.  I can see that."

"And here," Georgia went on, her hands urging Pep to sit up, then parting the hair on the top of his shaggy head, uncovering a circular lump.  "This is where the button was that you pushed to make the music play."

"That's just a mole, sweetie," Mom replied in her "calm down, kid" voice.  "Or a tumor, even.  We really should get that looked at."

"Mom!" Georgia nearly screamed.  "Pep was my favorite toy, but he was getting old and ragged, and you said we might have to get rid of him soon, and all I really ever wanted was a real dog, and I wished…"  But she couldn't go on.  She was overwhelmed by the memory of how terrified she'd been that her mother would throw away her favorite toy, how she'd held him and cried, like she was doing now, and how hard she'd wished that he was real.  And then, suddenly, he was, and she was just as terrified that they'd know about her being weird and punish her somehow.

"There, there, sweetie," Mrs. Coleman said, rubbing her daughter's back.  "It'll be okay."

"No it won't!" Georgia shot back, raising her tear-streaked face.  "I'm tired of keeping secrets, of feeling like a freak.  It's real!  You've got to listen, you've got to believe it.  You've got to believe me!"  And she stared pleadingly at her parents.

After a few moments, Mr. Coleman broke the gaze to turn to Mr. Smith.

"So, I guess we need to make arrangements for this orientation thing."

A few days later, the family (except Pep, who was at the vet for the day) stood in the foyer, nervously awaiting the transportation Mr. Smith had promised them.  Everyone seemed preoccupied.

Mr. Coleman kept going over and over all the tricks Mr. Smith had performed.  He was sure there was a way to explain them; he just had to figure it out, and all this nonsense would be over.  He thought he had figured a way to do the fire-lighting thing, but he was completely stumped at the final trick Mr. Smith had done: disappearing.  One minute he had been standing there in the living room, shaking hands and saying goodbye, and the next he was just gone.  Very disturbing, as Mr. Coleman was reasonably sure there was no trap door in his living room.

Mrs. Coleman kept going over and over some of the things Mr. Smith had said.  After they'd arranged the trip, he'd given them what she suspected was the usual spiel about why they should send their daughter to his school.  Despite its canned quality, it had been rather effective.  "An untrained, magically gifted person can be a danger, to herself as well as others.  Proper training is necessary for her own protection."  As designed, this appeal to her motherly instincts had found its mark.

Georgia kept going over to the window, pulling aside the curtain to stare out at the street.  She wondered what sort of car would come for them.  Or maybe it would be something exciting, like a magic carpet, or a broom!  Then she remembered how Mr. Smith had just disappeared from their living room.  Would he be able to just make them disappear, too?  Would she learn to do that?

She happened to be looking out the window at just the right moment to see Mr. Smith arrive.  He just appeared on their front step, as suddenly as he had disappeared last time.  Georgia gasped, and had already jumped to the door before he knocked, startling her parents.

"Hello, Miss Coleman, Mr. and Mrs. Coleman," he greeted them breezily as Georgia waved him in.  "Are we all ready, then?"

"Yes," Mr. Coleman answered, and gestured for his wife to precede him out the still-open door.

"Um, just a moment," Mr. Smith stopped him with a hand.  Then he turned to close and lock the door.  "We won't be going that way."

Mr. Coleman, wearing a very confused expression, stepped back.  Mr. Smith, with his free hand, reached into his pocket and pulled out a small rock.  Georgia, who had been hoping for the wand again, leaned in for a closer look.  It wasn't a rock, but a paperweight – clear glass or plastic, with a big golden medallion floating in the center, emblazoned with the letters USMA.  He held the paperweight out in front of him.

"Okay, everybody touch it," he requested.

Mr. and Mrs. Coleman stared at him as if he had gone insane, while Georgia's hand snaked immediately out.  Her father reached out to intercept her hand.

"Please, I know it seems strange.  Everything will be explained at the school.  Please."  Mr. Smith bounced the paperweight enticingly in his hand.  Slowly, reluctantly, the Coleman family reached their three hands out toward the clear half-globe.  "Thank you."  Mr. Smith raised his other arm to look at his watch.  "Okay, here we g-"

Georgia felt like something was tugging at her ribs.  For a split-second she was scared, afraid something had gone terribly wrong.  But then she was rushing through space, the gold letters USMA growing impossibly large as she rushed through them, and it was strangely exhilarating.  When, a moment later, she found herself standing in an unfamiliar room, she was smiling widely, pulling her tingling fingers back from the paperweight to stare at them in wonder.

Her parents hadn't fared as well during the experience.  Luckily, there were some well-placed sofas to catch them, as they found themselves unable to stand upon their arrival.  They sat, breathing hard, staring blankly at each other, while Georgia ran to the window and threw back the curtains.

"Whoa!"  Outside the window was a panorama of orange rocks and scrub grass, without a tree in sight.  It was definitely not Atlanta.

"Welcome to Roswell," Mr. Smith intoned.  "Please make yourselves at home.  Someone will come for you in about twenty minutes for the tour.  If you'll excuse me, I have to go collect another family."

Georgia turned back in time to see him disappear again.  Smiling brightly, she went to explore the waiting room, passing her parents, who still sat, dumbfounded, on the sofa.

"Welcome to the USMA," said a tall blonde woman to the crowd of dazed parents and excited eleven-year-olds gathered on the plaza.  "I am Carmelita Jones, and I'll be your tour guide this week.  The building behind me is the main school building," she gestured to the large and imposing red brick structure, then swept her hand to indicate the smaller, homier looking building across the plaza.  "The building you just left is called the Dorm.  It contains guest quarters as well as housing for some of our students."

"This is a boarding school, then?" asked a parent.

"It can be, but we find that most of our families prefer a day school approach."

A father in the group snorted.  "We're from New Jersey.  How can my son commute?"

"The same way you all just did," Miss Jones replied smoothly.  "We have a system of portkeys – those are transportation devices like the ones you just used.  We can place one of those in your home for daily transportation.  Or, we can set up one in your local school."

"Why would I want to send her to the local school?"

"Many families find that it adds a touch of normalcy to their children's lives," Miss Jones explained.  "The neighbors won't have to ask why your child isn't in school, for example, because your child can be bussed or walk to your local school and go in just like every other child in the neighborhood, but once there touch the portkey, which brings them here.  Then at the end of the school day, they go back to their local school and from there, home.  There are also academic benefits.  We can arrange for them to have report cards and school records from your local school, so that if you ever choose to leave the USMA, your child can easily transfer.  Part of the service," Miss Jones anticipated the next question, "is charming the school staff into believing that your child attends.  They can even participate in extracurricular activities at the local school."

This bit of information kept the group quietly thinking long enough for Miss Jones to herd them into the main school building.  She halted them in the large entrance hall, from which wide staircases led up and down on each side.  The far wall contained large double doors, above which was a plaque proclaiming "American School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Founded 1700."

"Here we are in the entrance hall," Miss Jones said obviously.  "Through these doors is the cafeteria, where all meals are served.  The USMA serves breakfast and lunch to all students, and dinner and snacks to residential students.  We pride ourselves on following the latest nutritional guidelines, as well as catering to any special dietary needs you may have.  The cafeteria is also used for school meetings, plays, recitals, things like that.  Yes, you have a question?"

The woman in the back who had had her hand up spoke out.  "Why's the plaque got the wrong name?"

"Oh, yes, you see, the name of the school has changed many times over the years, just as the school has moved many times.  When it was first founded, by refugees from the witch hunts on the East Coast, that name was given to a small building in what is now Poughkeepsie, Pennsylvania.  At the time, Poughkeepsie was wilderness, on the western frontier, but as we all know, that changed.  The founders were forced to flee before the ever-expanding borders of our country, finally settling here in Roswell in 1934 after seventeen moves and nearly as many name changes.  They chose this sight because the land was quite cheap.  The current name was chosen by a committee in 1993.  You'll find more information about the history of our school on our web site, as well as in your orientation materials.  And, of course, all students take American Magical History in their first year.  Now, if you'll follow me."

Miss Jones moved to lead the group up one of the staircases, but one of the student-hopefuls raised her hand.

"Yes?"

"What about the aliens?  You know, 1947?  The flying saucer?  Are the aliens here?"

Miss Jones laughed.  "I hate to disappoint you, but that whole thing was just a misunderstanding.  An over-boisterous game of Quodpot, nothing more."

"Quodpot?" several voices asked at once.

"It's a sport.  We'll be touring the field later.  Now, if you'll follow me."

Up the left staircase and down a long hall lined with doors they went.  Miss Jones paused near an open door, allowing the group to gather around and see inside.  With cinder block walls painted a monochromatic white, filled with wood-laminate desks, it could have been a classroom in any school in America.

"This is one of our classrooms," Miss Jones noted.  "Here at the USMA, we fulfill our students magical and non-magical needs.  Our curriculum includes everything you'd find in the best schools in the country – with our own special twist.  For example, here you will take Chemistry, but occasionally your experiments will involve eye of newt.  Your Social Studies classes will cover the usual World and American History, as well as the usually hidden history of the magically gifted.  You'll be able to read more about our curriculum in our catalog.  Follow me, please."

Georgia turned to the girl standing on one side of her, whose hair was done up in several tight braids.  "Eye of newt?"

The girl shuddered, and the two exchanged tentative smiles.

The tour continued, through several halls, while Miss Jones continued to explain the school's policies and purpose.  "Our main goal is to help our students learn to control and use their innate magical ability, just as a coach helps bring out the best in his athletes.  In fact," she stopped and leaned toward the group, he voice dropping a little, "many of our alumni are quite gifted in sport.  A bit of magic can make a baseball go further, or a basketball tip into the net just when it looks like it won't make it."

"But that's cheating!" a dark-haired boy standing next to Georgia exclaimed, scandalized.

Miss Jones shrugged.  "It is thanks to the generosity of such alumni that we can offer free tuition to our school."

This seemed to go over well with the parents.

They proceeded down the hall, passing a room filled with black-topped tables on which what could only be cauldrons stood in a line.

"Will they need…things, like cauldrons and wands and stuff?" asked the man from New Jersey, looking a little embarrassed to be saying such words when everyone looked at him.

"Should you choose to attend our institution," Miss Jones answered, smiling, "there will be one more trip, to a magical community nearby.  There you will be able to shop for all your magical needs.  Older children will be able to go on field trips there, to prepare themselves to live among other magically-gifted people if they so choose."

The group had reached a set of double doors.  "Now that you've seen the place, we thought you might want to chat with some alumni and faculty, who can answer any other questions you might have.  Refreshments have been provided."  And she opened the doors.

They led outside, to a field in which a large tent stood.  The Lovin' Spoonful's "Do You Believe in Magic" was playing tinnily over a loudspeaker.  Several older people were standing around holding cups of punch, and turned to greet the newcomers.  Georgia was amazed to recognize a few of them.

"Is that-?" she heard her mom gasp behind her.  "Well, I guess now we know how all those actresses look so impossibly beautiful."

The Coleman family moved toward the buffet.  Georgia grabbed a plate and filled it with snacks.  When she lifted the last buffalo wing from a platter, she was pleasantly surprised to see it refill before her eyes.  She got some punch, and was amazed to find that it stayed icy cold no matter how long she held it in her sweaty palm.

They found a place to stand in the shade.  While her parents had a quiet conversation, she presumed about whether or not she would be allowed to attend, Georgia looked around.  A small group of other kids had gathered at one corner of the tent and were pointing across the field, away from the school, she couldn't see what at.  Slowly, seeing no need to alert her parents, she slipped away from them and approached the crowd.  Finding a place at its edge, she could finally see what the fuss was about.

A few hundred feet away and coming toward them was a unicorn.

Georgia blinked, but the horn sticking out of the white horse's head remained stubbornly visible.  It was being led by a young woman of slight build.  As they neared, Georgia saw that the woman merely had a hand on the unicorn's flank, patting it, and that it was not bound by any rope or halter.

"Hi!" the young woman said brightly as she drew close enough to talk to the gaping crowd.  "I'm Gwen.  Wanna pet her?"

There was a chorus of eager affirmations, and several girls rushed forward.  Gwen held out a hand to calm them, and they slowed but continued to the blindingly white animal.  It stood pawing the ground, but seemed unperturbed by the attention.

Georgia held back a little, stopping at the back of the group, near Gwen.

"It's okay, she's real friendly," Gwen said encouragingly.

"Do you…take care of them?" Georgia asked tentatively, her eyes still drinking in the beautiful creature.

"Yeah.  Used to be really into horses back home, but these are much cooler," Gwen answered chattily, patting her charge on the neck.  "But I'll have to go back to regular horses if my social life ever improves!"

Gwen chuckled, so Georgia, not really getting the joke, smiled as if she did.  Having noticed that the other girls seemed to be enjoying petting the unicorn, she reached out and brushed her hand down its neck.  It felt very soft.

"Hey, Gwen!" a deep male voice sounded nearby.  All the girls looked over to find the speaker, and only some of them turned back to the unicorn after they saw him.  He was handsome and tanned, holding a green, oval ball which he kept moving from hand to hand.  "Toss a ball around?" he continued to Gwen, waggling his eyebrows at her.

She just laughed and rolled her eyes.  "Not now, Eddie."

"How about you guys, then?" Eddie said, turning to the boys who had been left in the corner when the unicorn arrived.

"What kind of ball is that?" asked the same dark-haired boy who had been so concerned about cheating.

"It's a quodpot," answered Eddie proudly.  "I could teach ya how to play."

Nearly all the boys nodded eagerly, and followed Eddie off across the field.

About an hour later, parents and children were reunited and stood under the tent, where Carmelita Jones had reappeared.

"On behalf of the staff of the USMA, I want to thank you for your interest in our school," she said over the whispers of her audience.  "We hope you all decide to attend.  If you will all proceed back to the Dorm, one of our transportation specialists will be along to help you home."

The families began to shuffle off.  Georgia looked around, spied her friend with the braided hair.  She sidled over.  "Hope I see you in the fall," Georgia ventured.

"Yeah, you, too," the girl said, smiling.  "I'm Margie, by the way, Margie Wilkins."

"Georgia Coleman."  They shook hands a bit nervously, then stood there feeling awkward.

"Well, guess we'd better go."

"Yeah.  Bye."

"Bye!"

Georgia watched Margie go, thinking she might for the first time have met someone she could really get to know.  Then she hurried after her own parents.