The Best Kind of Magic Page 14

  “Vincent, can you get her something to calm her?” I ask. He nods and dashes off to the bar, bringing back a damp towel. He applies it gently to her forehead before moving to rub her back, but she inches away before he can reach her skin.

  Her entire demeanor has changed, and not just because of the vision. She was SO EXCITED to come here tonight, and now she’s slumped against the booth like all the air has been let out of her heart. I want to say something—there’s just no way I’m wrong about Vincent—but I can’t do anything with him still standing here.

  Charlie turns back and forth between Amani and me, looking like he just witnessed an alien abduction.

  “What just happened?” he half-asks, half-yells.

  “Amani had a vision.” He looks at me like I’m speaking Greek. “Didn’t I tell you she’s a precog?”

  He rubs his eyes behind his glasses. “No, I think I missed that bullet point. So you two are like…wonder twins, or something?”

  Amani chokes out a laugh and I smile. Sometimes our talents seem so mundane to us, so it’s funny to view them through fresh eyes.

  “We’re amazing, clearly,” I say, sniggering.

  “The best of the best,” Amani responds with a mocking tone.

  “Okay, but seriously, guys, did you really just see the future?” Charlie asks earnestly.

  She clears her throat. “Well, I cut it off before it got too poltergeisty, but I got a definite sense of danger. Cass will be at this meeting, but she doesn’t know what’s coming.” She turns to me. “I think we need to call for backup.”

  “I have plenty of people we could use for muscle,” Vincent offers.

  “Thanks, but what I mean is, we should tell Charlie’s dad. This could be the last time anyone sees Cass, and he deserves to know what’s going on.”

  “We are talking about goblins, right?” I say with suspicion. “I mean, how much trouble could they cause? They’re so…pint-size.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Vincent says. “They can be pretty ruthless.”

  “You’re right,” Charlie says. “It’s time to tell my dad what we’ve been doing.”

  “Wait a minute. How can we bring parents into the loop without divulging certain incriminating facts?” I ask. “My mom will ground me, literally—as in, cast a spell to attach my feet to the floor of our apartment—if she finds out I’ve come here not once, but twice.”

  “We don’t have to tell your mom—” Charlie starts, but I hold up a hand to his face.

  “Trust me. If your dad knows, my mom will know. Those two couldn’t keep a secret from each other if their lives depended on it.”

  “But, Amber, you’ve been trying to help John, and he’s your mom’s oldest friend. I’m sure she’ll understand,” Amani adds.

  “I’m sorry, have you met my mom?” I ask. “And we’re not exactly on the best of terms, remember?” But regardless of where Mom and I stand, I’m now in an uncomfortable spot. What can I do? I don’t know this Cass chick, but unless she feasts on the flesh of unicorn carcasses, we can’t just leave her to some potentially gruesome ending. Of course, whether or not I am about to meet a gruesome ending remains to be seen. The last thing I want to do is go to my mom for help, but if I don’t, a person’s life could be in danger. Argh! Why can’t I just exist without a moral compass? Life would be so much easier.

  I DECIDED TO PROLONG MY stay at Amani’s, even though space is limited and mornings at the Sharmas are slightly insane. With so many boys running around, bathroom time is at a premium. Amani and I manage to snag the room before the crazy kiddos, and I lock the door behind us just as I overhear Mrs. Sharma talking on the phone with my mom, reassuring her that I’m okay. Oh yeah, I’m super; I never knew grooming could be an extreme sport. Thanks for asking me, Mom.

  Amani and I are crammed in together, alternating mirror time. Even though it sounds like a pack of wild dogs is scratching at the door for us to get out, Amani is making no effort to hurry; in fact, she’s been brushing the same section of hair for the past several minutes, her eyes unfocused in the pane of glass we’re sharing. The edges of her mouth are weighed down by whatever’s troubling her.

  “Think they’re performing an animal sacrifice out there?” I ask as the boys howl to come in.

  “Hmm?”

  “You’re not hearing the stampede?”

  “Oh, sure,” she says in a daze.

  “Are you always this spacey before coffee?”

  She looks at me as if she’s just realizing she’s not alone in the bathroom. “What? No, it’s not that.”

  “Then what?”

  Her face scrunches. “I can’t tell you.”

  “Of course you can; you can tell me anything.” I sit on the edge of the bathtub, opening my eyes wide for my best “I’m listening” face.

  Amani sets down the brush and slumps over the sink, her pained exhale audible over her brothers’ cacophony.

  “C’mon, it can’t be that bad,” I coax.

  “It’s about…Vincent.”

  Well, I knew this was coming. She was quiet last night after the Black Phoenix, wanting to go straight to bed rather than gossip. I know their first encounter didn’t go exactly as she’d hoped, but this is a little melodramatic, even for her.

  “It’s just…you build something up in your head, you know? You fantasize about what it will be like when something you’ve dreamed about actually comes true.” She frowns. “Then to have it be so…wrong…”

  “Whoa, who said it was wrong?” I ask. “I mean, just because he turned out different than you expected doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”

  “Amber—”

  “He’s your match!”

  She shakes her head. “No. There’s no way. I didn’t feel anything—no, I take that back. I felt…repulsion.”

  “Well, that’s a pretty strong word,” I say, crossing my arms.

  “It was a pretty strong feeling!”

  “Was it because he’s a vampire?”

  “No! Of course not,” she says, offended. “He was all sleaze-ball, underworld slime, pulling out every gross line in the book. Do you know he actually asked me if it hurt when I fell from heaven?”

  “I didn’t think he was sleazy,” I say.

  “Well then, you date him,” she fires back.

  “He’s not MY match.” Amani rolls her eyes, and I continue. “Okay, so maybe a rainbow of light didn’t shine down and encircle the two of you, but I’m sure lots of couples don’t fall head over heels on their first meeting.”

  She bites her lip. “I just think…you missed the mark on this one.”

  Like a dagger to my heart. Never in a billion years did I think my best friend would be added to my long list of unhappy customers. It stings, and I struggle to find the words.

  “You really think that?”

  Amani twists her face, trying hard to land on a sympathetic expression. “I know it’s not your fault. I know you wouldn’t purposely lead me astray. It’s probably the Fates trying to mess with us.”

  Now I’m getting annoyed. “It’s not the Fates and you know it. This is you questioning my matchmaking abilities.”

  “No!”

  “Yes! You’re pissed because you weren’t instantly smitten within the first thirty seconds of meeting your match, and now you’re looking for someone to blame. Well, go ahead: fire away!” I yell, hands up over my head.

  “It’s not like that,” she says quietly.

  “Isn’t it?”

  Amani sighs. “This is why I didn’t want to say anything. I’m not angry with you, just surprised. And yeah, disappointed at how it played out. I’m not trying to attack you, I’m only bringing up the possibility that maybe—MAYBE—your matchmaking isn’t one hundred percent.”

  The pain, THE PAIN. “Like that’s any better?” I huff.

  She sits down next to me on the tub. “I know what you’re thinking. He’s her destiny, I’m never wrong.”

  “Exactly. I’m never wrong.”
>
  “You’ve never been wrong…yet. There’s a first time for everything.”

  “Wow, thanks,” I say, burying my face in my hands so I don’t have to look at her. “Have you ever had an incorrect vision?”

  “No…Well, I don’t know. Maybe I have. I haven’t pursued every single vision to see if it’s played out exactly the way it did in my head.”

  This is too much. I can handle randoms hating me, but my best friend? Questioning me? And all before my morning pastry? NOPE. Insecurities are natural, but in all my life, I’ve never doubted my matchmaking skills. Never, not even when they were just emerging and I was the complete worst at communicating them. Even if the words came out wrong, even if I delivered them in the most socially unacceptable way possible, I’ve never questioned them. When I see a match, I don’t just see it; I feel it, a temporary bubbling up of love that is so powerful, all I can do is let it out and hope the couple finds each other. If what I see isn’t foolproof, if what I feel for these matches isn’t real, then what the hell is the point? What am I doing with myself?

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have told you,” I say, the words bitter on my tongue.

  “What?”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have told you about Vincent. Stuck to our pact, like we’d promised. Every time I gave you a sneak peek, I thought I was doing you a favor, helping you get excited. But now I see.”

  “See what?” Amani asks.

  “That what I was really doing was setting unreasonable expectations.” This tone is usually reserved for the masses, especially those who throw a fit over my matches. I never imagined it would emerge around my best friend. I don’t like it, yet I can’t stop it. “You took every clue and used it to create some perfect mental image, something no one in the history of ever could live up to.”

  “Amber…”

  “So you’re right: this is all my fault. Another ruined pairing, another broken heart.” I quickly stand and open the bathroom door, causing three of her brothers to tumble into the room. I step over their intrusive pile, grab my book bag, and head out the front.

  I am in a mood. A mood that is not made better when we arrive at Manchester and are immediately shuffled into yet another senior assembly. The thing about attending private school is the administrators expect you to do something BIG and IMPORTANT with yourself so they can sell the school as a launching pad to parents of middle-schoolers. There are lots of expectations crammed within these stone walls. It seems like the closer we get to college application deadlines, the more frequently we’re being serenaded by motivational speakers. I wonder who’s going to tell us to reach for the stars today.

  The auditorium is filling up, and while I’d normally grab a seat next to Amani, I need some space after our conversation. I know she wasn’t trying to hurt me, but the possibility of being wrong in my matchmaking is making me sick. Even if 1 percent of the matches I’ve seen over the years were off the mark, how many people may I have led astray? How many misled couples have trekked down the aisle on my blessing? I’m trying to do the math when Charlie sits down next to me.

  “You ready to be inspired?” he asks.

  “Excuse me, who said you could sit here?” I tease. Now this is a welcome distraction.

  “I did.” He smirks. “So are you?”

  “Oh yeah. We are the future, after all.”

  “No doubt. Where are you planning on going to college anyway?”

  “The Chicago Culinary Institute. To be a pastry chef,” I say, smiling at the thought.

  “Really? That’s awesome.”

  “Yeah, I can’t wait. I’ll open my shop and spend every day covered in frosting.”

  Charlie raises his eyebrows in amusement. “I like that visual. I’m just going to linger on that for a moment….” He stares off dreamily, but I hit him on the shoulder to bring him back. “You must have filled out your application a hundred times by now.”

  I shake my head. “I haven’t even started.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because if I fill it out, then I have to send it in. And if I send it in, there’s a chance for rejection. I have no backups; rejection is not an option,” I say.

  “They won’t reject you,” he says.

  “Oh, and I suppose you’re a precog now?” I ask.

  “If I was, then I’d know where I’m supposed to go to college.”

  I clap my hands on my cheeks and give an exaggerated gasp. “You mean, you haven’t already been accepted to your dad’s alma mater?”

  “Well, sure, if I want to go to Notre Dame,” he admits. “But I want to stay in Chicago.”

  I do everything in my power to not show pleasure in this. For some reason, Charlie is looking infinitely cuter and smelling infinitely better than he ever has before. “That would be good,” I say.

  “Would it?”

  “I mean, I’m sure your dad would be happy to have you home.”

  “Anyone else?” he asks.

  “As a matchmaker, I can assure you your presence would be missed by many a female.”

  “Any particular females?” he presses.

  I wag a finger in his direction. “I charge by the minute for that kind of intel.”

  He laughs. “I’ll check the vault.”

  The auditorium lights start to dim, and thank the Gods, because I cannot keep my face at its regular coloration any longer. I’m trying—I really am—to keep it together around Charlie, but every time he’s near, my insides feel all warm and glowy, and I’m unable to pull my eyes away from his hands: hands that cradled my hips, that pulled me close to him. Ahh, I’m doing it again! STOP IT, AMBER.

  Dean Adams takes the stage, immediately jumping into her routine spiel about Manchester pride and achieving our dreams. We have all heard this so many times by now that I think this string of words could automatically put the entire senior class to sleep. Sometimes it pains me to know that my future bakery success will reflect positively on this hellhole, but that can’t be helped. While doing things out of spite is a perfectly fine motivator in my opinion, it doesn’t apply when a girl’s got stuff to accomplish.

  Charlie leans over to me as the Dean rattles on. “My dad’s speaking today,” he says quietly.

  “Oh, that’s cool.”

  “He was practicing his speech over Count Chocula this morning.”

  “Now I like that visual,” I snort. “Chicago Bears legend psyching himself up with monster-shaped marshmallows.”

  John Blitzman is introduced, and he enters the auditorium to enthusiastic applause. He’s dressed very classy, in a full suit—Charlie definitely takes wardrobe cues from his dad. But even though his appearance is nice and crisp, his essence is all off; he’s not the confident giant who commands attention on the field and in the pressroom. He’s trying to mask it, but even from the back row, I can see the same sadness in his eyes as that day he came to my mom for help.

  “How is he doing?” I whisper to Charlie as John begins his speech.

  Charlie frowns. “I don’t know. He seemed encouraged over our goblin lead, but it’s making him crazy that we have to wait for this meeting to take place.”

  “He didn’t say anything to my mom, did he?” I panic.

  “No, he’s keeping quiet.” Well, that’s a relief. Charlie continues. “Dad’s a man of action, and right now, he’s not himself. He’s all mopey and listening to soft rock. It’s gross.”

  “Love’s a bitch,” I say.

  “I guess. I’m just not convinced it’s actually love between them.”

  “You really don’t like her.”

  “I barely know her. She’s so secretive and closed off. They’ve been dating for a year, yet she makes no attempts to ever spend time with us as a family. Now, I’m not dying to hang out with a money-hungry leech or anything, but if she really loved my dad, don’t you think she’d take a minute to get to know his kid?”

  I nod. “You make an excellent point.”

  “And I don’t like the way my dad is around
her. He’s the freaking mayor, but he’s like a declawed lion around her, cowering and doing whatever she wants. That’s not love; that’s submission,” he huffs, adjusting his glasses.

  “Maybe it’s just a side effect of being bit by the lovebug,” I say, playing devil’s advocate.

  He groans. “You speak from experience?”

  “No. It’s just a possibility.”

  “So you’ve never been in love?”

  “Not yet,” I say. “You?”

  “Not yet.” Everyone is clapping and John is taking a bow; I guess we missed his inspirational nuggets. Oh well. Our mayor waves to the crowd, his Super Bowl ring sparkling in the spotlight. As the lights come back on, Charlie asks, “Hey, what are you doing after school?”

  “Why? Do you have more Cassandra stuff to go over?”

  “No…I was thinking we could hang.”

  “Oh,” I say, trying to be cool. “I’m technically supposed to work, but I was going to blow that off to see my friend Ella at her bakery. I’m itching to get my hands on some fondant.”

  “That sounds fun. Can I meet you there?”

  “That depends. Do you have an addictive personality? Because MarshmElla’s is like a crack den for sugar lovers,” I advise.

  “I do like sweet things,” he says.

  We’re both smiling at each other like idiots as we walk out into the halls, which is why we don’t notice a sea snake crossing our path. Ivy stares at us, visibly offended at the sight of us together. Something wretched is swirling in that brain of hers, and I watch her blue eyes turn to green.

  “Amber, have you finished our English assignment yet?” she asks.

  “Oh yes, I’ve just been the busiest of bees, working to serve my queen,” I say with an exaggerated bow.

  Ivy scowls. “Charlie,” she starts, asserting herself where she doesn’t belong. “Is this girl bothering you?”