The Best Kind of Magic Page 12

  There’s a symphony of stomping and screaming coming from upstairs, so I head up after placing our order. One hour until delivery means I’ll need to keep these rascals under control for sixty minutes so my friend can have a break.

  The five boys have managed to round up every mattress in the house and lean them up against one another like a giant, memory-foamed teepee. I’m not sure how they dragged a king-size mattress all the way from their parents’ room; it’s kind of amazing.

  “All right, you hooligans, I’ve found your secret war base,” I call out, prompting five tiny heads to poke out from the teepee. I stick up two finger guns. “This means war!”

  “Amber!” they shriek, clamoring toward me. Suddenly, I’m covered in tiny fingers and toes, each determined to find all the ticklish parts of my body. Palak, the little guy with the hearing troubles, signs to me, Gotcha! so I tackle him down until he’s laughing uncontrollably.

  We play while we wait for the cheesy deliciousness to arrive, and even though I’m tired and their childish energy knows no bounds, I enjoy their silly roughhousing. The good thing about hanging out with kids is that their romantic destinies are still baking, meaning I’m free from witnessing the final products (for now). Sometimes it’s nice to just be, without my matchmaker switch active.

  Eventually the doorbell rings, and the six of us run to claim our deep-dish prize. The sound of twelve feet pounding down the wooden stairs rouses Amani, whose panicked face resembles someone afraid she left the oven on.

  “Did I fall asleep?” she asks, wiping drool from her cheek.

  “Yeah, in like five seconds. It was impressive.”

  “And everyone’s still alive?”

  “No human casualties to report.”

  She sits up, her body heavy against the couch cushions. The boys carry the pizza into the kitchen, where the sounds of openmouthed chewing echo. I imagine them all huddled around the pie, digging into it with their bare hands, like vultures cleaning a carcass. Good thing I ordered a separate, smaller pizza for Amani and me to share.

  “Did you ever know you’re my hero?” she says as I pass her a plate piled with melted mozzarella, along with a bottle of Tabasco.

  “No, but I accept the title with honor.” I do a little bow before my next bite.

  The nap and the pizza have helped to revive her, but still she says, “I’m never having kids.”

  It’s an offhand comment, one she’s made several times before (usually after a babysitting apocalypse), but having just come face-to-face with her future undead husband, it hits me: no, she really won’t ever have kids. Falling in love with a vampire means gaining an eternal love, but losing the ability to procreate. I know her little brothers are a lot to handle, but I hope her desire to forgo childbearing lasts her the rest of her life.

  “Um, about that…” I start, setting down my plate. I have to tell her about Vincent. At the very least, I have to give her the choice about knowing; I can’t keep this from her. “I have some information, should you choose to accept it. It’s in direct violation of our pact, but you should be aware that new evidence has been brought to my attention.”

  “You’re being very cryptic all of a sudden,” Amani says, one eyebrow raised. “Do I want this information?”

  “I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.”

  “Well, you know me best. Do you think I’d want to know?”

  I don’t even hesitate. “Yes you would. But it will change everything. Forever.” I refrain from adding a “dun, dun, DUN!” but it would totally apply.

  Amani sits up straight, legs crossed, hands on her knees. It always amazes me how even at her shlubbiest state, she still looks like a graceful yoga instructor: long and lean and ready to effortlessly slide into downward-facing dog. She closes her eyes and takes one long deep breath. On the exhale, she says, “Tell me.”

  I hope this is the right thing, telling her like this. There’s no matchmaker guidebook that lays out the proper ways to bring people together. Do I facilitate the blossoming of love, or step back and leave it to chance? If I intervene, there’s no meet-cute story to tell at their wedding, like bumping into each other at the pharmacy check out, or accidentally climbing into the same taxicab during a snowstorm. But does that matter? All I can do is go with my gut, and my inner five-year-old still wants love to happen so badly that the circumstances aren’t important. Love is love, regardless of how it comes out the gate.

  “I met your husband.”

  Amani doesn’t move, except for her mouth falling open. When no words come out, I continue on. “Charlie and I, we met him last night. At that restaurant you envisioned. He was there. I recognized him right away.” Still she says nothing, blinking slowly. This is not the reaction I expected. “Um, please tell me you’re not having a stroke.”

  She snaps back to life, out of her trance. “You…you met him? And you talked?”

  “Yeah, he’s great. He gets my stamp of approval.”

  The initial shock is melting into excitement. A smile creeps across her face, and she looks up at the ceiling with relief. I can tell what she’s thinking: Yes, it’s happening. Things are finally setting into motion. This is what she’s always wanted. Her love story is beginning. I’m beyond happy for her.

  “Wow,” she says, glassy eyes staring off into the future. “I can’t believe it.”

  “I know. It’s crazy.”

  “When do I get to meet him?”

  “Well, I’m not the one with the window to the future, but now that we know where he is, it shouldn’t be long,” I say.

  Amani springs from her side of the couch onto mine, knocking me over with an aggressive hug. I can actually feel her happiness; she should be crushing me, but her euphoria is making her weightless. I think about what Charlie said, about my matchmaking taking away loneliness. Amani already knew she was destined for someone, but somehow my meeting him clinches it. She’s giggling uncontrollably, pulling me up to stand. We simultaneously break into a ridiculous happy dance, whipping our hair all around and flailing our limbs just as crazily. The boys come in and join us, jumping up and down, throwing pillows in the air, all of us moving to a nonexistent soundtrack. It’s one of those moments you know you’ll look back on in slow motion, as part of a warmly lit, perfectly orchestrated montage of happy memories.

  Needless to say, this dance is much different than the one I shared earlier, but I decide not to tell Amani about that right now. This is her moment, and she deserves to fully live it.

  ISN’T IT WEIRD HOW YOU can have an amazing weekend and still find yourself surrounded by the same wooden desks and wooden people come Monday morning? The future is awakening all around me, yet I’m very much stuck in the present, balancing quadratic equations and picking at polyester plaid fabric. Not that school has ever been exciting, but after almost being decapitated by the undead, it’s considerably less so.

  Amani, for her part, is doing her best to keep our minds outside the walls of Manchester Prep. Our forty-five-minute gym class has been like an intense job interview, only with every question pertaining to a particular vampire. Today we’re doing a yoga unit, which is easy enough to fake. We’ve assumed our usual post of sitting aside from the action, pulling our mats to the back so we can stay in shavasana the whole time. Our teacher is dressed in questionable spandex and has drenched the gym in soothing music and dimmed light to set the mood.

  Apparently, my visual confirmation of Vincent’s existence has made Amani’s and my pact null and void, at least as far as my abilities are concerned. Their meeting is imminent, so might as well build the anticipation to an earth-shattering level. At one point, Amani squeals so loud, the entire class stops and stares from their downward dogs. The girl is excited, and who could blame her? Not me, which is why I keep egging her on.

  “Not only does he look like a retired male model, but he was ready and willing to throw down during the attack,” I whisper as we sit on the gym floor, “stretching.”

  Aman
i looks up from what could maybe pass as a lotus pose. “Wait, what attack?”

  Oh, right, I still haven’t given her the details of that night. Well, I guess since we’re in full-blown sharing mode, and not even pretending to be meditating, this is as good a time as any.

  “Remember a while back when that vamp with the drinking problem tried to blame me for his murder spree?” She nods. “He was there Saturday night, just as unhinged as before, and he tried to take my head off. Like actually.”

  “Holy crap, Amber! That’s terrifying! Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I don’t know, I didn’t want to ruin your excitement about Vincent.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Don’t be stupid. Talking about a boy is not as important as your life.”

  “You’re right. I just liked seeing you all twinkly.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Vincent tried to stop him, but actually, it was Charlie who got me out of the way.”

  She blinks a few times. “Hold on. Charlie…saved you?”

  Oh boy, here it comes. “Yes.”

  “Charlie Blitzman took on a rabid, lunatic bloodsucker to ensure your safety?” Her eye is twitching.

  “Well, he didn’t whip out a crossbow or anything, but basically, yes,” I say.

  “Do you know what this means?” She’s practically salivating.

  “I’m lucky to be alive?”

  She shakes my shoulders. “He likes you!”

  I look down at the shiny wood floor to avoid her eyes, which are moments away from having tiny pink hearts fly out of them. “There’s more,” I say.

  “THERE’S MORE?!” I tell her about our dance at Navy Pier, making sure to detail exact hand placements and levels of sweatiness. Somehow, I think this is making her even happier than the Vincent details. She gets up and kicks her leg in the air; I’m not sure if she’s aiming for a particular pose or is just excited, but I think it’s the only time I’ve ever seen her do anything athletic in gym class. Amani has been waiting years for this; she loves talking about this stuff, and I have a hard time giving it up for her. Sure, I talk about love all the time, but never with myself in a starring role.

  Yet the conversation comes to a screeching halt, thanks to Ivy moving into our bubble.

  “Excuse me, this is a Zen space. No negative chi allowed,” I stress as she sits down.

  “Did I just hear you two losers talking about dating Charlie Blitzman?” Ivy says incredulously. “I mean, you both aren’t that naïve, are you?”

  Amani starts to pounce, but I hold her back. “Honestly, Ivy, I know you’re used to everyone submitting to your every whim, but this is none of your freaking business.”

  “Oh, I’m pretty sure it is,” she says, a nasty smile spreading on her face. “I think you’re meddling in the wrong scene.”

  “Oh my Gods, Ivy—back off!” Amani yells, her outburst breaking the serenity of the piped-in pan flute. Our teacher looks over from his warrior pose and asks Amani to approach. Her punishment is to finish the class in front, demonstrating the final progressions. That girl’s a martyr, I tell you.

  “Seriously, Amber, do you really think that would work out?” Ivy continues. “You’re a matchmaker—you’d have to know you two would be doomed to fail. A guy like Charlie can’t be satisfied by one girl, especially a girl like you.”

  “And what kind of guy is a guy like Charlie?” I ask.

  “You know, a guy who’s close to power, to the finer things in life. From one girl to another: you’re just not in his league.”

  “Well, thanks for the advice, friend. Now, please go back to the sea urchin you crawled out from.”

  Ivy just smiles, then bends backward into a camel pose, her breasts pointing perkily to the sky, while her shirt rides up and reveals her midriff. One guy actually falls out of his plank at the sight of her, and there’s a collective sigh of admiration across genders as everyone takes in her perfect body. Feeling ill, I roll up my mat and go to the locker room, where I sit and wait for class to end.

  Alone with the smell of bleach tile cleanser, I think about what it’d be like to truly let myself enter a relationship without all my mystical baggage. It’s not like I haven’t dated. There have been sporadic romantic encounters over the years; I’ve kissed a few toads (not actual toads, mind you). But it’s never really meant anything to me, and judging by the other girls dancing in those boys’ heads, it didn’t mean much to them either. Do you know how hard it is to make out with someone when all you can picture is his wedding to someone else? I’d have to be blackout drunk to keep those visions from coming, and what would be the point of that? No thanks.

  I’ve gotten pretty good at shutting down my heart before it grows attached to others; it’s too exhausting, too pointless. And I know that sounds extremely discouraging coming from a “love professional,” but I’m not questioning the existence of love. The certainty of other people’s love stories is completely thrilling. It’s just that my story’s a blank: no beginning, middle, or end. I’m so used to extinguishing my feelings before they build into a flame, I wouldn’t even know how to stoke the fire without letting it burn out.

  Because…for all her horrible intentions, Ivy does have a point. I can’t date Charlie, and it has nothing to do with class status. Wouldn’t knowingly starting up a relationship with someone who is not your forever and ever be wrong somehow? Like, pre-cheating? I know most single people don’t start dating with the preloaded awareness of who their beloved is, so they try on suitors until they find a match, but I am not most people. I have a responsibility to use my talent for the betterment of mankind, and this—my possible interference—feels dirty. Not in a hot way, but in a “you’re going to get burned at the stake” way.

  Still, I can’t deny that Charlie is good company. We get along well, and he’s surprised me again and again; when I’m with him, I even surprise myself. I mean, willingly participating in a Navy Pier–organized function and enjoying it? Are you kidding me? Before that happened, I would have sooner believed I was growing a tail. While we were dancing, there was a brief moment where I was totally present with him. Not staring off into his future or visualizing his nuptials, just being with him: feeling his arms, hearing his laugh. It was…Well, it doesn’t matter what it was. Because I can’t. Right?

  My moral dilemma is causing me so much torment, I consider presenting my case at the coven meeting that night. Normally the shop is closed on Mondays, but this week’s meeting had to be moved up a day since tomorrow night we’re expecting a shipment of stink root, which, if not handled with care, can make the whole place smell like a skunk butt. The witches often go around and list the pros and cons of various magical gray areas; you’d be surprised at how often it is unclear whether or not magic should leak into everyday life. But standing in front of the group and confessing my sins would be admitting to feelings I’m not even supposed to have—in front of my mother, no less—so I just keep silently spazzing in the background while my brain continues to spin.

  The pillows are set, the candles are lit: she didn’t say it, but I think Mom is relieved to be having a “normal” night with her people. As the ladies filter in, I excuse myself to the back room to assemble a little dessert tray I put together last night. I couldn’t sleep, so instead I experimented with some flavored mousses; Dawning Day has long been a receptive audience for my exploratory recipes.

  I’m bringing out the cups of whipped cream from our mini fridge just as the magical round table is coming to a close. One of the younger witches, Julie, is finishing up a story to a rapt audience.

  “…and I know this doesn’t particularly pertain to magic, but the thing is, I love him,” Julie says, to the background of approving sighs. “And I don’t want my being a witch to get in the way of that. He says he loves my abilities, even if he can’t completely understand them. And, I guess, I’m just curious if any of you have gone down this path.” The circle is buzzing with opinions.

  “I’ve never d
ated someone who wasn’t supernatural, but I don’t see why it’d matter,” says one. “As long as you’re open about it.”

  “I don’t know,” pipes in another. “My first serious boyfriend said my being a witch was a turn-on, but it turned out he was more interested in my magic than me.” The crowd groans. “People just don’t understand what being a witch means.”

  I’m on the outskirts, silently passing out my raspberry-and-mango mousse, when I notice Victoria has curiously taken her seat at the head of the circle. While this coven is decidedly “leader-free” and anyone can sit wherever they choose, it’s been an unspoken understanding that my mom—owner of the shop and legacy member—sits at the head. Yet currently, she’s tucked away in the middle, almost unnoticeable. I had to scan all the faces just to find her. This isn’t right.

  The seat-stealer decides to throw her theory into the ring. “I’m glad you brought this to our circle, Julie, because your dilemma is not uncommon. In fact, you remind me of a young witch I used to know.” She crosses one fishnet-stocking-covered leg over the other, casually shooting a smug smirk in Mom’s direction. Mom doesn’t flinch. “It was a tragic story, really. A powerful witch in her prime, who turned her back on her calling, all in the name of love.”

  Julie shakes her head. “Oh, I wasn’t saying I would give up my practice for him, I just—”

  “Of course it never starts that way,” Victoria continues. “Who in her right mind would neglect the deep well of power established by the goddesses before us, especially for something as trivial and fleeting as love?” She makes a gargled sound that I think is supposed to be a laugh but registers more like “tortured walrus.” “But love, no matter how ridiculous, has its own power. It can change you, make you do things you never even considered, making your choices and personality completely unrecognizable, even to yourself.” She’s speaking to Julie but still looking at Mom, with one eyebrow perilously perched. I can’t believe she can even make facial expressions, what with all the chemical fillers that must be coursing beneath her skin. Mom is locked into her poker face, but I can tell this soapbox moment is ruffling her feathers. “It’s a dark art so ancient, no one can stop its magnetic hold once it has begun. In my opinion—”