The Best Kind of Magic Read online

  This gives me pause. Usually, Dawning Day would have already set something up, using a meeting to decorate the shop with an altar in the colors of the season. The fact that this hasn’t already happened is not good.

  Mom shakes her head gently. “I appreciate your initiative, Bob. But no, we won’t be recognizing the Mabon at this time.”

  No equinox celebration? We’ve never been the best at sticking to Wiccan traditions, but I can’t believe something like this is falling by the wayside. What’s next? No more cauldrons? No more magic? I try to catch Mom’s eye to say this very thing, but she’s already left the conversation. Bob shrugs his giant shoulders, and I go back to tidying up the shop, untangling the “bewitching” necklace display, and straightening the awful knickknack area. From the main pavilion, I hear the live band play some bouncy rock ’n’ roll, but it’s not so loud that I can’t hear Mom talking with a customer at the front of the store.

  “Charlie,” she says, causing me to whip around so fast I almost knock over a porcelain gnome. “What an unexpected surprise!”

  “Hello, Ms. Sand, it’s nice to see you,” Charlie says warmly. He gives me a quick look before refocusing on Mom.

  “You’ve gotten so tall since the last time we met,” Mom says. That is such a parental thing to say. “I spoke with your father last night; I’m doing everything I can to bring Cass home.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

  “So to what do we owe your visit here today?”

  “I’m actually here to see Amber, if that’s all right. Does she have a break coming up?” he asks.

  “I think that can be arranged,” she says. She turns around and calls, “Amber, you have a visitor.” As if every cell in my body wasn’t already vibrating.

  Amber, for the love of Gods, calm down, I tell myself as I walk over. Just tell him you’re sorry and thankful for what he did; then things will go back to normal.

  “Heytherehow’sitgoingfriend,” I spit out like a verbal machine gun. Sheesh. Mental face palm.

  “Walk with me?” he asks, gesturing outside.

  Navy Pier may be the ultimate collection of the tacky and overpriced, but even I can’t deny how nice it is to walk along Lake Michigan at sunset. The Chicago skyline changes from steel to sparkle, and with the shade of darkness coming down, the pier’s cheesy carnival rides start to take on a more enchanting glow. Everything looks better under twinkle lights.

  Staring out onto the string of tour boats bobbing in the water, I decide I better speak first or I’ll explode from guilt.

  “Charlie, I’m so sorry about last night. I shouldn’t have taken you there in the first place without protection, and I definitely shouldn’t have forgotten to thank you for helping me. I don’t know what came over me.”

  He shrugs. “You were scared. A vampire tried to make you his dinner. It was terrifying.”

  “Yeah, but you were all brave while I had a mental breakdown. It should have been the other way around; I mean, I at least know more about that whole world.”

  “Well, I had naïve stupidity working for me,” he says.

  “I wouldn’t call it stupid—” He puts his hand over my mouth to shut me up.

  “Amber, I’m not upset with you.” He lowers his hand.

  I’m confused. “Why not? I’m upset with me.”

  “It’s not like you lured me into some trap. You took me there because I asked you to help me, and that was the next breadcrumb on the trail. Up until the undead came in and killed the vibe, I was actually having a good time.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Nobody was pressuring me about my future, or asking me about my dad’s chances for reelection. In fact, nobody cared if I was there at all.”

  I open my mouth, but he covers it again before I can speak.

  “What I’m saying is, a lot of the time, I’m seen more as a platform than a person. And I get it, I do. But it’s kinda empty. And last night, it wasn’t like that. So we almost got eaten alive, so what? Somehow being around a bunch of monsters made me feel like more of a person.”

  Well, that went differently than I imagined. I spent the past ten hours daydreaming many possible scenarios: some of them involving faceless prison guards taking me away for endangering the life of Chicago’s first son, others having our shop close due to sudden permit problems relating to mystical misconduct, resulting in losing our business license and becoming homeless. But none of them involved Charlie thanking me for almost killing him and checking on my well-being. A precog I am not.

  We’re leaning against the guardrail, the smell of popcorn and cotton candy wafting through the air. Now that I know Charlie doesn’t hate me, I can breathe easier.

  “Well, I’m glad we’re both not dead and also not angry. But this is exactly why you don’t put a matchmaker on a missing persons case,” I say.

  Charlie shakes his head. “You keep selling yourself short, but you were killing it last night. Did you see how happy you were making everyone?”

  I think of all the joyful faces and can’t help but smile. “Yeah, that was pretty awesome. But that’s my thing: I could match people in my sleep.”

  “I don’t know how it all works, and maybe it seems like nothing to you, but watching you do it”—the corners of his mouth tug upward at the memory—“you were basically taking away those creatures’ fears of being alone by giving them the promise of love. Do you have any idea how incredible that is?”

  Huh. I can honestly say I’ve never looked at it that way: that by giving someone their match, I’m also taking away isolation. I guess I take it for granted that love is a concrete reality, and others might not have that innate understanding.

  “Wow, Charlie, you really know how to deliver a compliment,” I say, feeling my face betray me. Damn you, cheeks—don’t blush! But it’s too late; I’m all flushed. He just smiles. “Thank you,” I add.

  “How’d you get into this anyway? The whole Cupid scene?” he asks.

  “Are you asking for my origin story?” I joke.

  He rests his cheek on his propped up palm. “Yes, please.”

  I snicker, looking up at the stars, trying to think on where to begin.

  “Well, I guess it all started at my uncle Seymour’s wedding,” I start. “I was five, and I’d been picked to be the flower girl, which was semi-ridiculous because I barely knew anyone on my father’s side of the family.” I pause, trying to dampen the inevitable feelings of frustration when I think about my dad. “They were never super-down with my mother’s magical ways.”

  “How very Salem of them,” Charlie remarks.

  “I know, right? But anyway, I guess I was the only blood relation under four feet tall who could take on the arduous task of sprinkling pink petals before dainty bridal toes. The whole clan lived in Milwaukee, so leading up to the main event, I never got a chance to actually meet Seymour’s wife-to-be. Somehow, though, I started picturing what she was like.” I remember it to this day: visions I couldn’t explain flooding my head. I saw her: long black hair, soft brown eyes, fingernails filed in even little ovals. A stranger I could size up, clear as day. “Then, to my surprise, a completely different woman came beaming down the aisle.

  “I was crazy confused, but then”—I raise a finger and eyebrow to heighten the drama—“an opportunity. The minister asked for objections and—”

  Charlie covers his mouth, knowing where this is going. “Oh no, you didn’t!”

  “Of course I did! My uncle was about to marry the wrong woman! I couldn’t just let that happen! Picture a sweet little flower girl, hair in ringlets, ribbons around her waist, screaming at the top of her lungs that she protests the marriage. At first, there was laughter—nervous giggles from a crowd unsure of how to process such an unprecedented scene—but when I wouldn’t stop, the chuckles turned into angry yells, demanding I be removed from the church. My father had to throw me over his shoulder and carry me out, kicking and screaming the entire way. Total nightmare.”
/>   It was…not the best, and certainly another check in the “magic is horrible” column for my dad. My mom has never said it (and never would), but I feel certain that wedding was the beginning of the end of my parents’ relationship.

  Charlie’s laughing, doubled over with his forehead planted on crossed arms. “You were the only one with the guts to speak up!”

  “Yes! Thank you! I was doing them a service.”

  “And I guess the rest is history,” he says, wiping away a few stray tears.

  “Yeah, well, it wasn’t exactly smooth sailing. In the supernatural community, once a gift is unearthed, it’s next to impossible to bury it back down. I’ve definitely put my foot in my mouth an inconceivable amount of times. But I’ve cooled it to the point where I no longer offer my opinion unless asked. Or paid.”

  I can’t tell if it’s because I just shared a pretty personal story, or because a chill is setting in, but Charlie has definitely leaned in closer. The twinkle lights have given his eyes extra sparkle, and I detect a hint of cologne. Suddenly, my arms are covered in goose bumps.

  “I should head back in,” I suggest, and we push away from the guardrail. On our way back to the store, we’re bombarded by the sounds of rockabilly guitars and drums.

  “What’s with the music?” Charlie asks.

  “Oh, it’s a Navy Pier theme night. Doo-wop, or something.”

  “Sounds fun.”

  “I promise it’s not.”

  “Let’s go look.”

  We enter the main pavilion, and even without the echoing melodies of the live band, the space is a cyclone of sensory overload. Every square inch is screaming and fighting to grab attention and dollars; an IMAX theater, several chain restaurants, a children’s museum, and staggered kiosks are jammed together in one neon-lit cluster of crazy. I pass by here daily and still can barely make sense of it. I’m so glad our shop is farther down the pier and not in the belly of the beast; I’d have to achieve a major level of Zen to deal with this every day.

  We’re standing on the top level, looking down at the madness. There’s a decent-sized crowd clustered around the band, doing their best to imitate moves their grandparents did when they were young.

  “Okay,” I say, my tolerance for public gatherings waning, “we checked it out. Now let’s—”

  “Dance,” Charlie chimes in.

  I stare at him blankly. “I’m sorry, the music’s really loud. Did you just say we should dance?”

  He nods, grinning from ear to ear.

  “You’re insane if you think I’m going down there.” I cross my arms to emphasize my stance.

  “Well, when the nice men come to fit me for my straitjacket, you know where I’ll be.” He gives me a little bow before heading for the escalator. He waves as the stairway carries him down.

  Is this really happening? Is he for real? I watch as he willingly enters the mass of bobby socks and saddle shoes. He looks up at me expectantly as he starts to twist and shout, motioning for me to join him. I can’t just leave him there dancing like a dork by himself, can I?

  Man, you know the past twenty-four hours have been severely messed up if somehow being nearly eaten by a vampire has dropped to only the second-weirdest weekend occurrence, because here I go, marching into the crowd after him.

  Charlie’s worked his way to the middle of the dance floor, so I have to squeeze past hordes of letterman jackets and pedal pushers to find him. When I finally do, he spins toward me and beams.

  The song comes to an end and everyone applauds. The Buddy Holly wannabe singer says a few thanks while the band cues up their next number.

  “May I have the next dance?” Charlie asks.

  “Sure thing, daddy-o. But only one.” No way I would be here if I didn’t owe him my life.

  The band starts up again, another swinging upbeat rhythm. Charlie pulls an imaginary comb from his back pocket and pretends to slick back his hair like Danny Zuko. Not to be outdone, I pull my hair out of its ponytail, shaking out the strands to the beat of the drums. Charlie purses his lips to make an “ooh” face, and takes my hand to spin me around.

  I can’t believe I’m doing this. We jive, we jitterbug, we laugh and flail about. At first I feel silly—I’ve never danced in public before—but Charlie has his full attention on me, so I reciprocate, and the other lindy hoppers fade away. I have to say…Charlie is pretty good company. He’s certainly not the sullen boy who lurks around Manchester Prep, waving off advances from starstruck schoolgirls. I would’ve never expected this from him, nor would I have guessed I’d find myself in this situation. But no one else has ever asked me to dance, so why not? I’m not hurting anyone.

  But then…Buddy breaks from the chorus and instructs all the guys to grab their gals, and Charlie does; he puts his hands on my hips and pulls me into him, our torsos touching. Suddenly, we’re not just two people dancing around the same space; we are the same space, moving as one. I don’t know what else to do except hold on, wrapping my arms around his shoulders. I feel tiny beads of sweat on his neck, his fingers clutching my lower back. My heart is pounding so ferociously I no longer hear music, just the white noise of all my senses exploding.

  Charlie, perhaps sensing my inward implosion, says into my ear, “Is this okay?”

  Is it? I can’t say for sure. Minutes ago, I was up on the balcony, refusing to be part of such a ridiculous scene, and now I’m here, dancing in the arms of a boy who not only saved my life, but also does not seem turned off by my supernatural freak flag. I can’t deny it feels good; it’s been ages since I let myself get so physically close to a boy. And I’d be lying if I said this particular boy wasn’t appealing.

  Just before the song ends, Charlie leans in so we’re eye to eye. His face is glowing from all the dancing, and I become acutely aware of how warm I am. But our locked eyes also remind me of something else: Charlie’s future wife. With his fingers still clinging to my body, my brain is flooded with this girl: the way she lights up when Charlie enters a room, the way she complements him in every way. And it hits me hard—this isn’t okay. Charlie is not my guy; he belongs to someone else. Whether he meets her tomorrow or ten years from now, the outcome will still be the same. He’ll skip off into the moonlight with a beautiful lady at his side, and I’ll be left alone. There’s no messing with the Fates.

  I have to stop this. Immediately. Before it’s too late. I try to subtly shimmy away, but then he smiles, that magical “I’m only this wholeheartedly happy when I’m looking at you” smile, and I actually feel myself go weak in the knees. Is that a real thing? I thought it was just a cliché expression used by lazy lyricists, but no, my legs are legitimately shaky, and if his arms weren’t wrapped around me, I’m not confident I could stand on my own.

  Good Gods, what sorcery is this?

  SOMEHOW I MANAGE TO HELP Mom close up for the night, even though my feet are barely touching the floor. (Not literally, of course. I didn’t randomly develop levitation powers nor sprout a pair of pixie-dusted wings. But figuratively, I do seem to be walking on air.) I don’t even mind wiping down the Brew Your Own Potion station, a chore I usually despise because getting even a drop of those liquids on any square inch of skin means living out the side effects for hours afterward. But tonight I push on, since every part of me is already tingling.

  It’s weird, honestly, that engaging in a Navy Pier–sponsored event could have this kind of effect. I usually avoid their functions like the plague, and now here I am, relishing the afterglow. Is this why people participate in things like this? Are all outwardly obnoxious gatherings secretly entertaining and uplifting? Do all people know this? Did Charlie? Charlie…A smile sneaks on my face without permission. No! Stop it! You’re being stupid! I need to figure out how to nip this in the bud, and clearly I am not to be trusted. I need additional assistance.

  I head straight to Amani’s house after work. A lot of households might have picturesque family dinners on Sunday nights, but not mine; the weekends are so busy at Wind
y City Magic that Mom usually only has enough energy to flop into bed. The shop is closed on Mondays (unless it’s a holiday), so those nights tend to be more successful for a sit-down meal. More often than not, I dine with the Sharma family on Sundays, because even if there’s nothing cooking, there’s always a lot of food in the house.

  There has to be. Amani is one of six kids; her parents tried for years to have “just one more” after her, then wound up getting pregnant with triplets. Then two years later they had a bit of a whoops and ended up with twins. All boys, of course, leaving Amani as the reigning female sibling. Walking into the Sharma house is like entering the thunder dome: always loud, always chaotic, always the sound of something breaking in the background.

  My head is swirling with thoughts of supernatural rescues and sock hops, but all that fades away when my best friend opens the door, looking like she just escaped the nine circles of hell.

  “Please, wake me up from this nightmare,” Amani says, leaning on the doorframe. From her clothes alone, I can tell things are not good. Instead of one of her usual flouncy dresses, her jeans and hoodie are stained with multiple unidentified substances, and her hair is barely hanging into a lopsided bun. She looks haggard, like she pulled herself out of a war-zone trench.

  “Sorry, I ain’t the sandman and you ain’t asleep. What’s going on?” I ask.

  “My parents had an emergency session and left me to watch the pack,” she says, growling coming from the other room. “They’ve been gone for hours.”

  “What can I do to help? Want me to call Bob and have him sit on them?” I offer.

  “Actually, can you order a pizza? I’ve lost all will to communicate with the outside world.”

  “Ooookaaaay. Lou Malnati’s? Half sausage, half cheese?”

  “Yes. Extra cheese. All the cheese. I need it.” She flops onto her couch and buries her face, one arm hanging lifelessly off the side. I hear what sounds like snoring, but no, she couldn’t have fallen asleep that fast, could she? I nudge her hand with my foot to no response. Wow, that has to be some sort of record. I leave her to rest while I pull up the number for Chicago’s most delicious pizzeria (saved in my phone, because duh).