The Best Kind of Magic Page 13

  “And who made you the expert?” I blurt out, instantly regretting it. Because while most of the eyes that turn my way are in desperate need of positivity, two pairs—Victoria’s and Mom’s—only show frustration. But I already opened my big mouth, so there’s no turning back now. “I just mean, you’re painting a very one-sided picture here.”

  Victoria sizes me up. “Oh, am I, matchmaker?” She says “matchmaker” like it’s equal to “puppy killer.”

  “Yeah. You’re making love sound like some kind of living nightmare, and it doesn’t have to be that way. If Julie wants to know if this guy is worth pursuing, I can tell her right now.”

  “Oh, Amber, that would be wonderful!” Julie exclaims, while some of the witches nod in agreement.

  “That’s what you’re going to hinge your entire future on? Some inane reading?” Victoria asks, incredulous. “She has less magic in her entire body than I do in my pinkie finger.”

  “Leave Amber out of this.” Mom finally enters the conversation.

  “I’m sorry, Lucille, of course it’s not my place,” Victoria concedes, yet her face is still twisted in a wicked expression. “And yet, this really isn’t Amber’s place either.” She turns to me, lips pursed in fake sympathy. “This is a coven meeting, sweetheart, and if you aren’t a witch, you shouldn’t attend.”

  “This is our shop! You are our guest! Who even are you, barging in here and messing up the vibe with your over-perfumed aura?” I yell.

  “Amber,” Mom starts.

  “No! This is bull! Maybe I’m not an official member of Dawning Day, but I belong here more than her!”

  Victoria makes another unpleasant laughing sound. “You can’t really believe that. Just because you provide the ‘refreshments’”—she actually uses air quotes, as if she didn’t just scarf down my mousse seconds ago—“doesn’t mean you’re really involved.”

  At this, I drop my tray, breaking the remaining dessert flutes. Some of the witches gasp, but I don’t care that I’m making a scene. I’d rather listen to shattering glass than this wench’s voice for one more second.

  “You are ridiculous! Literally no one in this room feels the way you do!”

  “Amber,” Mom repeats, with more force.

  “No! And there’s nothing wrong with being a matchmaker. I like what I do. At least I help people, which is better than spending precious cauldron time trying to gain back the youth that obviously disappeared years ago,” I snap with sass.

  “AMBER!” Mom yells, standing now. Most have diverted their eyes, yet I know I’m still the center of attention. “That’s enough.”

  “Mom, she—” Before I can get out another word, Mom spins around and silences me with a flick of her wrist. I try to spit out a stream of obscenities, but I’ve been muted, my voice temporarily stolen. This enrages me even more; for Gods’ sake, I’m trying to stand up for myself! For the coven! She doesn’t say a word, standing firm in her decision to keep me quiet. There isn’t even an apology in her eyes, nothing to indicate any remorse.

  “She’s right. You are out of line. You need to leave,” Mom instructs me. I’ve been thrashing about in my own little bubble of silence, but this freezes my fight. Victoria is brainwashing the group to think that love is a curse and I’M the one who needs to leave? Well, you know what? FORGET IT. If I’m not magical enough to have a say, then I want no part in whatever’s to come. I charge through the group, making sure to glare at Mom as I pass; Victoria may be the clear villain here, but I absolutely cannot deal with Mom’s dismissal. She tries to stop me as I pass, her steely demeanor cracking slightly, but I shake free of her grasp and tune out whatever stupid consolation line she tries to feed me. I don’t want to hear her reasoning; there’s nothing she can say to erase this sting.

  Just before I leave the shop, I hear the group resuming their conversation as if I didn’t even speak up at all.

  I text Amani to meet me at MarshmElla’s for emergency salted caramel cupcakes, and when I arrive, she’s there with two plates ready. My voice doesn’t come back for a full thirty minutes, so we sit and sign instead.

  Why does she always do this to me? I ask with my hands. She keeps me at arm’s reach from anything important, like I’m a kid you can’t trust around a stove.

  Maybe she’s trying to protect you? Amani signs back, but even without vocal inflection, I can tell she doesn’t believe that.

  No. I’m not a witch, so…I’m not enough, I sign with a shrug. It’s not really a shrug-worthy subject, but I’m so tired of feeling this way. It’s not my fault I was born without full Sand magic; I didn’t ask to be a matchmaker. But considering the circumstances, I think I’ve done okay. I’ve honed my skill the best I can; I’ve made the most of it. I can deal with kids at school hating me or customers being dissatisfied with my readings, but having my own mom look at me as less than? There’s only so much a girl can take.

  Amani leans her head against my shoulder, and I lay my head on top. “You’re enough for me,” she says quietly, and I pinch back the urge to cry.

  I SPEND THE NIGHT AT Amani’s and don’t bother calling Mom to let her know where I am. Let her worry…if she even cares.

  To lighten the mood, Amani changes the subject to her topic of choice: boys. I should have known that as soon as I told her about Vincent, she wouldn’t stop bouncing like a rabbit until we met him, so we spend the evening planning an outing to the Black Phoenix. She agonizes over what to wear and what to say, and I can’t even tease her about it, because really, if you knew for a fact you were about to meet someone who would change your life forever, wouldn’t you want to make the best possible entrance? I suggest visiting next weekend, but that’s apparently too long a wait, so we settle for tonight. Even though the beginning of the week might make for a night when the restaurant would be completely dead (no pun intended), she insists she doesn’t care, saying there’s only one person she wants to see anyway, so what does it matter how crowded it is? You can’t compete with logic like that.

  And now we’re here, standing on the sidewalk outside, me dressed in Amani’s girly wear, and her decked out from head to toe. “How do I look?” she asks before we walk in. She spent hours trying to find that unattainable blend of meticulously thought out yet effortlessly casual. She looks adorable: her dark brown hair left wavy, her long legs emphasized by a short black skirt and ankle booties. Her young-looking features can’t hold a lot of makeup, so she’s added just a touch of pink lip gloss.

  “You look ready to make a lasting impression,” I assure her, giving her a big hug. She squeezes me back even tighter. Although I am always her best friend, tonight I am playing my official role as matchmaker, bringing together yet another couple, as I am destined to do. She’s asked me to stay for moral support, but experience has taught me that once these two lock eyes, I’ll become an afterthought, another blob in their hazy amber glow. It’s fine; I’ve tucked a Sylvia Plath book in my bag, because if you’re going to sit alone at a restaurant, you might as well do it up right.

  The place is far less occupied than last Saturday night, but there’s still a small crowd lingering about. It’s definitely a different vibe, though, and I kind of wish Amani could have seen it over the weekend instead; whereas Saturday was all glitz and glamour, tonight is way more laid-back: beers instead of cocktails, jeans instead of ball gowns. Even Mr. Restaurateur himself is more subdued, having traded in his tux for a more relaxed button-down.

  Look at him, wiping down the golden tabletops like it’s just another night and not the first encounter with the love of his life. I have to admit, I love this part. I don’t always get to actually witness a matched couple’s first meeting, but when I do, there’s a certain magic in the air that not even the most powerful Wicca could replicate. The merging of two lives, the threshold of possibility: it’s an energy unlike anything else. I’m so happy I get to do this for my best friend.

  Vincent spots me and gives a little wave, but his eyes quickly move to Amani. She sees
him, and I know that she knows; every part of her is suddenly pulled upward, her smile and heart both lifting to the sky. You can almost hear an orchestral swell narrating the moment, pulling these two souls together. I have to grab her hand so she doesn’t float away from excitement.

  “Amber, hello,” Vincent says to me, but clearly enchanted with the creature beside me. “I’m glad to see you’re doing all right.”

  “Oh yeah, I’m super. Vincent, I wanted to introduce you to my best friend, Amani Sharma.”

  Like a princess, she offers her hand, which he kisses lightly. “It’s nice to meet you,” she says.

  “Believe me, the pleasure is all mine,” he answers, clearly bewitched. They stare at each other breathlessly, undoubtedly blinded by fireworks, and I excuse myself to a solo booth. They don’t notice my exit, nor would I want them to. My job here is done; the rest is up to them.

  I’m not a big drinker, and who even knows if my stomach could handle any of the offerings here, so when a waiter comes by my table I order a cup filled with maraschino cherries instead. Hey, if I’m going to sit alone, I might as well satisfy my sweet tooth. As I munch on my syrup-soaked fruit, I watch Amani and Vincent chat. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but it looks like it’s going pleasantly enough. Like me, Amani has had a few flings but nothing serious. She’s been more open to dating than me, however, since she doesn’t have the same disadvantage to deal with. She likes to talk and joke about guys, but she still keeps them at a distance, knowing they aren’t truly worth her full emotional investment. I can’t wait to hear what she thinks about her future husband.

  I should be reading The Bell Jar for that English project, but I can’t seem to focus. Maybe it’s because a pair of vampires are making out—fangs and all—at the table next to me. How do they not impale each other’s tongues with those teeth? It’s impressive.

  My phone rings; it’s Charlie. “Hey,” I answer, closing my book for good. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing much.” He pauses. “Where are you? It sounds like there’s hyenas mauling each other in the background.”

  “Nah, just a couple of vamps hooking up.”

  “Oh. So you’re in a bordello?”

  “Yup. Just a regular Monday night.”

  “Cool, cool.”

  “But really I’m at the Black Phoenix.”

  “Again?” he says, voice rising in surprise.

  “Yeah, I had to tell Amani about Vincent, and she was chomping at the bit to meet him,” I say. “As a matchmaker, I couldn’t deny her that right.”

  “Sure. So, you’re just hanging by yourself?”

  “I guess, playing chaperone to a lovefest.”

  “Do you need backup?”

  “Not really.”

  “Let me rephrase,” he says. “Would you like company? I’m right down the street.”

  I bite my lip to keep from smiling, not that he can see my reaction. What to do, what to say? I don’t want to encourage this, but I am kind of bored right now, and who knows how long those two will float in their love bubble. So I do my best to play blasé. “I mean, if you’re not busy.”

  “I’ll have my assistant move some things around,” he jokes.

  “You do that.” I hang up and finish my cherries. Not long after, Charlie shows up, still rocking a tie at 10:30 p.m.

  “Do you always dress so fancy?” I ask as he sits next to me.

  He looks down at his shirt. “What do you mean?”

  “You always look so proper and gentlemanly, like you could spontaneously time-travel to the nineteen twenties and blend right in.”

  He considers this. “Except for the earrings. I don’t think a lot of guys went for that back then.”

  “Right! You have so many accessories! What with the tie clips and suspenders…I think I own maybe two necklaces, and even they are probably borrowed from Windy City Magic.”

  He shrugs. “I like clothes.” He waits a beat. “Is that weird?”

  “No, it’s not weird, it’s just not very common.”

  “Isn’t that the definition of weird?”

  “I’m not saying you look bad—”

  “So you’re saying…I look good?” He looks down shyly at the table, his volume dropping in equal proportion to the swelling joy on his face. I’m surprised by his sheepishness, given that girls are routinely throwing themselves at him at school. You’d think a guy would take that as a surefire sign of his attractiveness, but he’s acting like some kind of bashful doe, astonished that anyone would give him a second look. I mean, there’s no way I’m the first girl to vocalize Charlie’s visual appeal, right? Or is this just the first time he’s truly hearing it?

  I give him a small punch on the arm, just so he doesn’t get too carried away. “Quiet, you.” He does as I ask, his smile brightening in the absence of conversation. Just then Amani dives into the booth, burrowing her face into my shoulder. She mutters a muffled “Oh my Gods.”

  “So, how’s your beau?” I ask. “Do I know how to match ’em or what?”

  She pops up, and her expression is more confused than I’d expect. I thought by this point she’d have trouble keeping her head on her body from pure excitement, but instead, she looks like her brain is going to leak out of her ears. “Amber…” she says with furrowed eyebrows. “I can’t stand that guy.”

  I blink a few times, unable to process. “Huh?”

  “He’s awful!” she exclaims. “All he did was talk about the most boring garbage, and the whole time, I felt absolutely nothing toward him. No fireworks, no chemistry whatsoever. Are you sure he’s my match?”

  I look up at the kitchen, where Vincent has gone back to perfecting plates for his clientele. Of all the matches I’ve ever made, none of them have been as clearly defined as Vincent; I’m surprised I haven’t visualized his driver’s license and bank account numbers by now. How could Amani not be into him, even just a little bit? I mean, it’s not like I expected him to get down on one knee during their first meeting, but I assumed at the very least she’d be filled with butterflies.

  “Amani, he is your match. I’m sure of it.”

  “And you’re never wrong?” Charlie chimes in at the worst possible time. I shoot him a look of death, which makes him actually flinch. “Sorry! Just wondering.”

  “No, I’m NEVER wrong,” I say with emphasis. “How could I be? Why would I be envisioning some random vampire chef every single time I’ve hung out with Amani for the past seven years if they weren’t meant to be together?”

  Charlie juts his lip to the side, in a “don’t ask me” kind of way.

  I look back at Amani, who is equally perplexed. “Amber.” She shakes her head. “I could never see myself with that guy.”

  “But…but…I’ve seen it! The two of you! Dancing till midnight and taking trips to Spain and—”

  Amani grabs my leg under the table to make me shut up, as Vincent is approaching with a tray of appetizers we did not order.

  “On the house, my friends,” he says proudly. He sets down the mozzarella sticks that I hope are filled with cheese and not bone marrow or something, and he’s unable to peel his eyes away from Amani. Well, at least one of them is smitten.

  “Do you have any sriracha?” Amani asks. Her request for something hot has brought a smile to his face, causing her to sink down further.

  “Anything for you, chérie,” he replies. Then, turning to Charlie, “Ah, the young Mr. Blitzman,” Vincent says as he offers us napkins. “How does it feel coming back here after your heroic victory?”

  “Well, I’m not having war flashbacks, so that’s a good sign,” Charlie says to Vincent’s laughter.

  “Good, good, I’m glad you both came in tonight, and not just because you brought this beautiful lady with you.” Amani forces an awkward smile. “That goblin you two were chatting with the other day, Mr. Hollister? He had some more of his kind meet up with him after you left. I was bringing them a round of drinks and overheard one of them say Cassandra’s
name.”

  Charlie and I both sit up straighter.

  Vincent continues. “Now, goblins aren’t exactly the most cheerful folk, but they were definitely working on some kind of scheme. When I was cleaning up for the night, I found this under their table.” He hands Charlie a scrap of paper.

  Written in insanely tiny block lettering is an address and date.

  Michigan and Jackson 8 pm Thursday

  “That’s only a few days away,” Charlie says. “What do you think this means?” He continues looking at it, as if prolonged staring will make the printed letters reveal different information.

  “It’s hard to say exactly, but I think Cassandra is mixed up with a bad crew,” Vincent says with sympathy.

  “Let me see it,” Amani demands, hand outstretched. “Maybe I can get a glimpse of what’s going on.”

  Charlie starts to pass it to her, but I grab his hand to stop him. “Amani, you don’t have to do that.”

  She snatches the paper anyway. “Please. He saved your life. It’s the least I can do.” She takes a seat and holds the paper in both hands, centering her stare. We all sit in silence as she tries to conjure up a vision. I’m surprised, honestly, that she’s willing to do this, especially after her blackout the other night. She hasn’t used her magic regularly in years, and now she’s trying twice in the same week? I’m simultaneously proud of her progress and nervous of how it will affect her.

  It takes a while, but eventually something inside her clicks, and her eyes start doing that wild thing, like they’re spinning tops in oval sockets. Charlie turns to me, clearly disturbed, but my focus is on Amani, making sure she doesn’t go catatonic again. Luckily, she stops herself just in time, dropping the paper and burying her face in her hands. Quiet sobs slip through her fingers, but when she finally sits back up, her face is dry. If my mom were here (and I’m glad she’s not), she’d call that progress.