Free T*Witches 3: Seeing Is Deceiving by Randi Reisfeld, H.B. Gilmour

tough tactics of their substitute: Elisabeth Fish.
    Beth had become superstudent, racking up one Einstein moment after another. Her homework assignments were so exemplary, Webb read them aloud a couple of times. Pop quizzes, the scourge of Cam’s existence, seemed to be what Beth lived for.
    There was a flip side to the academic coin: Beth’s zoom up the GPA ladder in social studies mirrored her slip-slide in nearly every other subject. According to a round of Six Pack IMs, Kristen noted that Beth, usually her closest competitor in Spanish, had totally messed up onthe last test. Amanda wrote, In algebra, she was marked unprepared. I don’t think she did the homework. Sukari typed, Dag, and I thought it was just a temporary case of brain rot when the girl formerly known as Ms. Frizzle couldn’t come up with the formula for iodine.
    Beth was not on the IM tip. She wasn’t anywhere with the Six Pack lately. She bagged their Friday pizza fest, bailed on the mall troll and movies on Saturday. She was barely on-line anymore. E-mails went unanswered, some unread even. And when the talk of the school was a round of shopliftings at the Galleria — another scam involving a teen and a decoy adult — Beth noticeably didn’t participate.
    As Cam feared, Beth hadn’t shown up for two soccer practices and was booted off the team. Worse, her friend didn’t seem to care. During lunch one day, she got defensive about Helping Hands. Volunteering was so time-intensive that Amanda, who’d meant to sign up, had changed her mind. And Beth (so unlike her) had taken the innocent girl to task. “I guess helping abandoned children isn’t as important to you as you thought it was,” she’d said, sniffing.
    Amanda defended herself. “That’s not fair. Ms. Webb said we’d have to meet after school every day. Learn fund-raising techniques, look up potential donors on the Internet, design flyers and stuff. You’ve been doing allthat, and you haven’t even
seen
the kids. I would have no time for anything else. I’ve already made a commitment to soccer and my team needs me.”
    “And your friends need you” is what Cam wanted to say to Beth, but didn’t. Their relationship was still on the fritz. Cam didn’t want it to sputter out.
    It wasn’t until the following Saturday morning, when emptying her backpack in search of her English notes, that Cam found the folded-up piece of paper she’d wedged into her math textbook.
    I need to talk to you. Alone. Really crucial stuff going on. Call me on my cell phone right after school.
    Beth’s note. The date was a week and a half ago.
    Beth seemed surprised, and not especially happy, to see Cam standing at her front door a little after ten A.M. on Saturday morning. Still in her pj’s, without her contacts in, her hair a dense tangle of bed-head frizz, she squinted suspiciously. “What are you doing here?”
    Feeling suddenly awkward, Cam folded her arms. “I need to see you. And I figured even Helping Hands wouldn’t have you up and out this early.”
    “You should have called,” Beth mumbled. “This is really not a great time.”
    From inside the house, Cam could hear muffled sounds: a dog barking, music coming from Beth’s sisterLauren’s room, voices raised in anger. She’d assumed the TV was on, but now realized the voices belonged to Beth’s parents.
    Cam aimed for a quip. “Nothing like a little family discord with your Cheerios, huh?”
    Beth’s face darkened as if she was about to say something, but she bit her lip instead.
    “Can we go to your room?” Cam took a step inside. “This is important, Bethie.”
    Her friend didn’t answer, but turned, motioning for Cam to follow. At least Beth wasn’t that mad, Cam thought with relief as the girls walked down the hallway to the back of the house; she hadn’t booted her.
    Beth’s room was bright and sunny, a shrine to friendship, flora, and fauna — a total reflection of the good-natured girl’s personality. Ceramic