The Best Kind of Magic Page 3

  “You must be Ivy’s sucker of the week,” I say, turning my head to avoid his breath. “Does she have you guys on a roster rotation or something?”

  He pounds his fist on the locker for effect. “Don’t talk about her that way!” Ol’ Trent here has giant blood in his lineage, which is why he’s so upset over something so trivial. Quick-tempered, disproportionate brain-to-muscle mass, easily manipulated? Classic giant traits. Natural prey for a siren. “Ivy’s amazing, and you’re just jealous, witch.”

  “Sure, and I bet she does amazing things for you,” Amani says with a pointed look.

  This sends Mr. Anger Issues into a blind rage, but luckily, Mr. Boger, the school guidance counselor, happens to be walking by at that very moment and puts a stop to the madness.

  “Enough, Mr. Simmons,” Mr. Boger says, easily pulling him off me. “Violence against women is not only a reprehensible moral crime, but cause for expulsion at Manchester. And we wouldn’t want that, now, would we?”

  “I would,” Amani interjects, raising her hand. Mr. Boger shoots her a glare. “Just saying.” She shrugs.

  “You two, my office: now,” Mr. Boger orders Amani and me. You might wonder why we are being sent to the office when we did nothing wrong, but ever since my ten-year-old self set Mr. Boger up with his husband, he’s always looked out for me. And sometimes I do need extra protection, because just as Trent McGiantpants starts plodding down the hall, I can’t stop from yelling, “It’ll never last!” after him. This inspires the riled-up onlookers to start a chorus of “ooohs!” and Trent replies with a tidal wave of words a nice girl like myself doesn’t use. Whatever. I’ve looked in Ivy’s eyes, and trust me when I say Trent Simmons is not her destiny.

  “Why do you have to do that?” Mr. Boger asks when we are nestled safely in his cherry-wood-lined office. “Why egg them on like that?”

  “For sport?” I say. Amani snorts.

  Mr. Boger sighs, running his hands through his salt-and-pepper hair. “Amber, I know firsthand how special you are.” I notice a framed picture of him and his husband, Richard, on his desk. So cute, those two. I remember that day: I was at a farmers’ market in Wicker Park with my mom, who was low on sage. I saw Mr. Boger also perusing the herbs, and we briefly made eye contact. Naturally, I instantly envisioned his future love, which didn’t seem like anything noteworthy. I was constantly seeing strangers’ destinies. But a minute or two later, who should I see but Richard purchasing a bundle of rhubarb. I couldn’t believe it at first; I’d never crossed paths with someone’s match so soon after having a vision. It was fate! I ran off and grabbed Richard’s hand, dragging him over to Mr. Boger. If I had done that now, it would be creepy and weird, but since I was still young, it was charming and endearing. They’ve been together ever since.

  Mr. Boger continues. “I understand that being special means being different, which can be hard. But sometimes I think you are actively trying to make people dislike you.”

  “I’m simply treating others the way I am treated,” I say. I like Mr. Boger, but I’m not in the mood for psychoanalysis. Because you know what? It’s fine. Sure, it’s not the biggest self-esteem boost to be called a freak on a daily basis, but school is not forever. Someday I will get out of here and meet someone amazing and live happily ever after. Or not. In which case I’ll move in with Amani and her future husband and force them to adopt me.

  “Well, try to rise above. You’ve got a long school year ahead of you. I’d like to see you make the best of it.”

  “Who said we aren’t? Seeing Trent go nuclear was the best part of my day,” Amani jokes.

  Mr. Boger’s face melts into one of an exhausted parent, tired of having his words unheard. “Okay, be gone, you two.”

  As we exit his office, I decide not to tell my mom about getting in trouble yet again. Parents generally don’t delight in getting that kind of news, and as you can imagine, Mom is extra sensitive about the mistreatment of magical folk. Sometimes I like to envision her going all dark after learning of my being bullied, transforming into a tornado of fury and turning all my schoolmates into warthogs. While that would be temporarily awesome, I don’t want to go to school in a pigpen.

  So I keep it in, like always, isolating myself yet again. It puts me in a weird mood, but I know what will make it better.

  CHOCOLATE.

  BEFORE HEADING TO CRAZY PIER after school, I make a quick stop at MarshmElla’s, my absolute favorite place in the city. It’s not just a bakery; it’s a direct path to heaven. When you open the door, you are instantly enveloped by the warmth of the oven and sweet aroma of melt-in-your-mouth desserts and pastries. I myself once acquired a full sugar high just from smelling the eight-layer dark chocolate fudge cake fresh from the oven. It is sinful, in the best and most decadent way.

  This place—the things they create—this is what I aspire to. Matchmaking will always be my bread and butter, but becoming a pastry chef is my dream. After all, baking is really not so different from magic. Both require a basic understanding of the craft; a willingness to experiment and manipulate an existing selection of variables and ingredients. Balance, patience, and creativity are needed from both witches and bakers, and isn’t the perfect recipe just an edible spell? My mom mixes potions from her grimoire; I mix batter from a cookbook. She wears charms to ward off spirits; I wear aprons to ward off stains. Candles versus ovens, herbs versus sugars: it’s all about using the tricks of your trade. So what if I’m the only woman in the Sand family who can’t make objects levitate or disappear? Can they bake a dark chocolate cake with vanilla bean mousse and cherry sauce that literally takes people’s breath away? The two trades are basically made for each other; you can’t tell me that biting into a moist red velvet cake doesn’t put a spell on you.

  When I’m free from Manchester Prep, I hope to attend the Chicago Culinary Institute. I’d like to open my own bakery, and who knows? Maybe I’ll create a one-stop “find your mate and order your wedding cake” shop. I mean, who wouldn’t want to order up a soul mate with a side of buttercream frosting?

  Only crazy people and Satan don’t like frosting.

  The silver bell above the doorframe jingles as I walk in, and Ella, the owner, looks up at me from behind the counter. This time of day marks the start of the evening rush, and she’s stocking platters high with cupcakes for those wanting after-dinner desserts. The bakery’s décor is composed of neutral tones, letting color pop from the pastries themselves, like a treasure chest of sugar sparkling behind glass. Ella gives me a warm smile, a splotch of vanilla frosting on her round cheek. She is a master of the culinary arts, though somehow she always ends up wearing a portion of her creations.

  “Hi, Amber,” she says, stacking cupcakes in a spiraling pyramid. “How was school?”

  “Awful, as expected,” I answer, scanning the chalkboard menu for today’s victim.

  “Well, that’s the spirit,” she replies. Ella may have lured me here years ago with her sweet tooth, but she’s kept me coming with her sympathetic ear. She gets me, whereas most people do not.

  “I need something extra scrumptious today, something that will make my blood sugar skyrocket.”

  “That kind of day, huh?” Ella stands, wiping her face but somehow still leaving the frosting intact.

  “Yup, and I still have to go to the shop and spew love predictions. Give me something that will make me sweet.”

  Ella scrunches her face. “I don’t think I have anything that powerful.” I laugh. “But I do have this.” She walks over to the cooler and pulls out a heaping cup of dirt and worms. While it may not sound like the most fancy or desirable of desserts, Ella’s version is beyond compare: homemade devil’s food pudding, mounds of hand-whipped heavy cream, a box full of crushed chocolate cookies, and soft, tangy gummy worms. I don’t care if it’s kid stuff; it’s amazeballs.

  “Yes, yes! Now, please!” I say, stretching my arms out like an impatient toddler. She hands me the cup, and I spoon up the pudding. Ah, there it
is. Suddenly, everything is better. An interesting quirk of being supernatural is that regardless of parentage or pedigree, we all have highly sensitive tongues. I’ve never met a beastie who didn’t lose it over a tasty morsel that would skew way too sweet or sour for a regular palate. Salty pretzels, bitter lemons: everyone has their weakness. I don’t know why this is, but I certainly don’t fight it. Amani carries Taco Bell hot sauce packets in her purse at all times to juice up her entrees. My particular poison is sugar, and I welcome its sweet hold on me every single day.

  “I made it just for you. Somehow I knew you’d be by today,” Ella says. “Maybe I’m becoming psychic.”

  “A psychic baker? Gods help us. I don’t think the Fates would allow it,” I gargle through whipped cream.

  She pouts. “Too bad. I’d make a killing.”

  “I’d say you already are.” I nod to a swarm of moms and excited kids who just came in. The young ones are positively vibrating at the anticipation of cake, and I don’t blame them.

  “Can I get you anything else?” Ella asks.

  I lick a cookie crumb from my lips. “Yeah, can I get a lavender whoopie pie for my mom? I need to butter her up for information.”

  Ella smirks as she wraps up the treat. “Intriguing. Fill me in later?”

  “I always do!” Happily, I take the bag and squirm my way out of the crowd. I feel so much better than when I came in; that’s the power of pastries.

  I devour the rest of my dessert while waiting for a bus. I could take the “L” train, but sometimes the sway of the cars flips my stomach in an unhappy way. Coughing up dirt and worms is one surefire way to piss off weary commuters. Besides, the bus route will bring me much closer to the pier; it just takes longer.

  As I’m scraping the last of my pudding from the cup, another person joins me at the stop. Only, I can sense immediately she isn’t exactly a person. Long, wavy auburn hair; guitar case strapped to her back; clothes that look like they were sewn from a rose petal. Yup. Definitely part fairy. Something about that lineage always cloaks its descendants with that crunchy granola vibe. I’m surprised she isn’t handing me a recycled-paper flyer about veganism or organic tea tree oil.

  She looks up at me (fairies are generally pretty short, probably because their ancestors slept in pinecones), and I can see from the corner of my eye that she senses my supernaturalness too. Usually I avoid eye contact with strangers at all costs; matchmaking out in the wild can be dangerous and unpredictable. Two years ago, I was cornered at night by a vampire who was afraid he’d just drained the love of his life. Spoiler alert: he had. I remember the blood on his lips as he came at me, furious at my confirmation. Luckily, I had mace in my pocket, but from then on, I’ve tried to avoid random public premonitions. I try to refer them to Windy City Magic, where I can perform with the safety of a powerful witch at my side. But my pudding has me in a good mood and this little sprite looks harmless, so I turn and meet her gaze.

  Instantly, I’m flooded with scenes of the fairy girl and her equally crunchy mate: growing herbs in a garden, riding bicycles along the lakefront, playing together in some sort of musical group. Hmm. I wonder if she’s already met him.

  “Hey,” I say, trying to sound casual and not like a cheeseball. “Are you in a band?”

  “Yeah, well, we’re trying to be a band. We’ve only been playing together a couple weeks, still gelling.” Her voice sounds like a rainbow, if that’s even possible.

  “How’s your lead singer? Any good?”

  She gets a twisty smile on her face, the kind that tries to stay hidden but can’t help itself. “He’s all right.”

  Suuuurrre, you can’t fool me, fairy. I see the bus rumbling up the street; better wrap this up fast. “Singers are so important for a band. I have a feeling he’ll be pretty important to you too.”

  Her smile grows; she can’t deny it now. With rosy cheeks, she says, “Thanks,” before climbing up the bus steps. See? That’s how it should always go; happy endings for all. I am a patron of love, people! Not a harbinger of death.

  Sheesh.

  Mom is initially delighted by my sugary offering, but after one bite, begins questioning its purpose. I watch her face morph from one of pleasure to one of suspicion.

  “Why did you bring me this?” she asks.

  “Because you are the best mommy ever and I wuv you beary much?” I bat my eyelashes innocently.

  “Amber.”

  I sigh. “Fine. Because I want to know what you and John talked about last night.” There’s no point in lying to a witch.

  She picks up a napkin and dramatically spits out the chewed cake.

  “Mom! Gross! You are a respectable businesswoman and manipulator of magic; you can’t just spit out food like a petulant toddler.”

  “If that’s so, why am I being treated like this? You think the only way to get me to confide in you is through bribery?”

  “Um…yes?” She never tells me about the high-priority spells. It’s like there’s some kind of security clearance for magic, and since I’m just a lowly matchmaker, I’m denied access. “I want to know what’s going on so I can help.”

  She tilts her head, exhaling through her nose. She’s softening to the idea. Maybe the whoopie pie was an obvious play, but Mom’s true soft spot is my taking interest in the family business. Sometimes I think she feels bad I wasn’t born a witch, so when I pursue magic even despite my lack of ability, it moves her.

  “Amber, you know I would love to have your help. But your gift, while very powerful, is also very specific, and I’m afraid will not apply in this situation,” she says gently.

  “But is everything okay with John? Is he in danger? Are radioactive vultures swooping in to take over his golden empire?”

  Mom laughs, once again picking up her treat. “No, nothing like that.”

  “Then what?”

  “He simply needs help finding someone.”

  “Oh, well, that’s easy enough. Should I grab the ingredients for a locator spell?” I ask.

  “No, I tried that already. This missing person is very skilled at remaining hidden,” she says.

  “Like, do they have an invisibility cloak or something? ’Cause that would be cool.”

  “Perhaps.” She takes a bite, contemplating the possibilities as she chews. “I can’t quite figure it out.”

  “Shouldn’t John file a missing persons report?”

  “He wants to avoid any public attention on this, if possible. You know how the media is.” Oh, I do. A few years back, a local paper tried to make headlines by spinning some cracked-out idea that the occult was taking over Chicago. Windy City Magic, along with the trend of black nail polish and Ouija boards being sold at Urban Outfitters, were among the culprits. Because if anything is responsible for spreading knowledge of the paranormal, it’s the trend-obsessed hipsters at Urban Outfitters.

  “So what are our next steps, then?” I ask.

  A soft gray strand of hair falls between her eyes. “We don’t have next steps. I will be working on this alone.”

  “I want to help.”

  “Not this time.”

  “But I—”

  Mom stands up, dismissing her dessert for a second time. “Amber, I don’t want you involved here. Leave it.” She storms off to the back of the store, forcefully pulling the curtains behind her. I don’t bother following; I hear a series of clicks and know she’s put up a barrier. Ugh. I wasn’t trying to invade her magical space or something. I just want to know what’s going on.

  And if she won’t tell me, I’ll find out on my own.

  I SPEND MOST OF THE next day at school daydreaming about this mysterious missing person and why the mayor doesn’t want their identity revealed. Maybe it’s his long-lost aunt Mildred, whose centaur roots could ultimately discredit John’s football records for using illegal superpowers. Or maybe it’s an old college girlfriend, whose disappearance proves John’s association in a Skull and Bones–type secret society that was planning to assa
ssinate the president. Or maybe, just maybe, John has amassed such a fortune he actually acquired a unicorn for a pet, and it ran off on a rainbow or something. (Confession: I am obsessed with unicorns. Maybe it’s that last sliver of childhood left in me, but the idea of a horse with magical powers just seems so freaking amazing. I’ve never seen one, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t real, right? If vampires and werewolves roam the city streets, why can’t beautiful unicorns run free in pastoral Ireland or something? I don’t know. It seems possible, and I don’t want to hear otherwise.)

  I’m envisioning myself riding bareback on a unicorn with flowers in its mane when someone calls out my name in the hallway.

  “Amber Sand?”

  I turn around, frustrated at the interruption from my pleasant daydream.

  Oh good Gods, it’s Charlie freaking Blitzman, a.k.a. Mr. Manchester Prep’s Most Wanted, a.k.a. gag me.

  “Yeah?” I ask, pressing my notebook against my chest like a shield. I can’t remember the last time I talked to him; it had to have been at his mother’s funeral when we were kids. You’d think our parents being besties would translate into at least a forced friendship between us, but somehow it never played out that way. Charlie exists in a different stratosphere; being the son of the most famous man in Chicago comes hand in hand with fame and money. Buttloads of money. And that alone means he’s incredibly more desirable than your average teenage male, making the demands for his attention frequent and fervent. He always has a lot of people clamoring to be near him, yet I rarely see him roaming the halls with anyone, playing the role of dismissive loner instead. I guess we commoners are just too lowly and unwashed to mingle with his greatness. Which is fine by me. I don’t have the patience to take on some brooding, poor-little-rich-boy companion.

  He walks toward me in long, confident strides. His uniform is impeccable; while most guys here push the limits on acceptable dress code, Charlie looks like a walking brochure—no shirttail hanging out, no loosened tie. He’s even wearing a tie clip with a tiny gold fox on it; I had no idea Manchester even sold tie clips engraved with the school mascot. His grooming is a little more relaxed but still carefully presented. Light brown hair cut shorter on the sides but longer on the top, slick black glasses with a bold orange stripe running through the frames, tucked behind silver-studded pierced ears.