The Best Kind of Magic Page 4

  I can’t tell you how many girls have come up to me wanting confirmation that Charlie was their destiny. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like he’s some repulsive troll (coincidentally, trolls think humans are extremely unattractive, and I once had one tell me my looks were so offensive he might vomit in my presence—so there you go), but wanting someone based on something as trivial and fleeting as social standing is so empty and sad. Not surprisingly, I’ve yet to meet a shallow hopeful who’s turned out to be his true love. But since he’s blocking my path with no exit route in sight, I guess today will be the big reveal; I stare straight into his forest-green eyes and wait to see that lucky someone who will steal his heart one day.

  And there she is: all porcelain skin and big, bright smiles. I’m treated to a quick highlight reel of their happiness, including an afternoon shopping spree on Michigan Avenue and a vacation in Tokyo. I have to say, Charlie’s future leading lady is not exactly who I pictured him with. While this girl seems cute and fun in an eclectic, kawaii-style kind of way, I just assumed he’d end up with some vapid, gorgeous Barbie doll. Isn’t that what all rich guys want—arm candy? Mind you, it’s not like I sit around thinking about Charlie Blitzman’s love life, but I’ve been approached by so many lovesick girls hoping he’s their “one” that, yes, I have occasionally entertained the thought. His match is a stranger to me, meaning none of the Manchester harpies will ever get their claws in him. Ah, satisfaction.

  I must have some slack-jawed look on my face because Charlie slowly waves a hand in front of my eyes. “Uh, hello? You okay?”

  I wipe my face, trying to reset. I’m usually much better at zipping through the romance portion of my daily interactions. “What do you want?”

  His eyebrows tense. “I’m sorry. Am I bothering you?”

  Aaaaaand now I’m being rude. “No, sorry, my mind was just elsewhere. I’m present now. Fire away.”

  He clutches the strap of his leather messenger bag as if it were attached to a parachute. He seems to be regretting initiating this interaction, but hey, that’s not my problem.

  “I was just wondering if I could talk with you after school, in private somewhere,” he says.

  “Okay, about what?”

  “I’d rather not say right now, hence the request for privacy.” Charlie gives a quick look over his shoulder. I follow his glance to see a gaggle of giggling idiots drooling over him down the hall. They try to look casual, pretending not to see the object of their affection, but they may as well be lifting their shirts to get his attention.

  “Wow, it’s like your own paparazzi, only less subtle,” I say, giving the girls a wave. They scowl back. Delightful.

  “Yeah, it’s the reason I get out of bed in the morning,” he deadpans. “So where can I meet you?”

  “I have to work after school, so I’ll be at my mom’s shop.”

  “Navy Pier, right?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “Yeah. That works. I’ll see you there. Later,” he says, heading off. The girls follow like lap dogs in his wake. As they pass by, one sizes me up, probably trying to assess why a jewel like Charlie would waste his breath on rubble like me. From the way she raises an eyebrow and smirk in tandem, I can tell she’s classified me as a “non-threat” in the imaginary competition for Charlie’s heart/money/whatever. I smile back, just as smug, feeling satisfied that this girl who hates me for no logical reason will ultimately fail in her quest. I could give two craps about who Charlie ends up with, but this girl does, and I take pleasure in knowing it won’t be her.

  I feel more eyes on me as I head toward second-period English. Curious whispers curl beside me, and I have to admit I’m equally intrigued as to why Charlie came off his pedestal to talk to me. He usually moves through the halls like a ghost, his presence felt but never truly absorbed. Something important must be forcing him to come down from on high, and I can only assume it’s a matter of the heart since he came to me.

  “Oh my Gods.” Amani bombards me the second I sit down. She is literally on the edge of her seat as she asks, “Did Charlie Blitzman just ask you out?”

  “What? Who told you that?”

  “Alison Bleeker.”

  “Seriously?” I’m surprised my fortune-telling friend could so easily become victim to rumors, even if she’s let the well run dry. “You’ve lost your touch, Amani. Do you really see Charlie and I dating?”

  She pulls at her knee socks. “No, but you told me not to poke around in your tomorrows anymore, so I don’t see you dating anyone.”

  This is not surprising, though it does sting a little. On the flip side, I know almost everything about her future husband. The tidbits on him have been building over the years, and now I feel like I know him almost better than I know Amani. He’s a vampire with a penchant for expensive custom suits and strong Italian coffee. I’m not sure if he does so now, but someday he will run a haute cuisine restaurant in the Gold Coast that will be known for booking elusive musicians and attracting an eclectic clientele. I even know his name—Vincent—a detail that only appears after spending significant time with someone. I rarely ever learn the names of my clients’ matches because I don’t have the patience or willpower to sit with someone that long.

  Their union will work out nicely since Amani has a very young-looking face—she once got pulled over simply because a cop thought she was a child who had driven off in her mother’s car. It will take a very long time for Amani’s aging to catch up to his eternal youth. She comes from a family with six kids, and all that craziness led to her firm decision to never reproduce, which again is perfect since he will be physically and mystically unable to. She is also quite the night owl—you see where I’m going with this? They are meant to be. I don’t know when or where they’ll meet, but when they do: BOOM.

  “Thanks, that’s very reassuring.” I try to say it lightly.

  She slaps my arm. “Quit it! Did it happen or not?”

  “No, of course not. He said he needs to talk about something,” I say.

  “When was the last time you even spoke to him? Middle school?”

  I shrug. “I don’t remember. Maybe? We’ve never really been tight or anything.”

  “Do you think it has to do with his dad’s visit to your mom?” she asks.

  “Maybe.” Huh. I didn’t even think about that. Duh, Amber.

  “I’ve never talked to him before. What was he like?” she asks.

  “I don’t know…fancy?”

  “Fancy? What does that mean?”

  “He was wearing a tie clip.”

  She laughs, slouching back in her chair. “He seems like a jerk.”

  “Then why were you so worked up at the prospect of me dating him?” I say, raising my voice.

  “Because!” she shouts back. “I don’t want my best friend dating a jerk.”

  “Well, neither do I.”

  “So, I don’t end up with a jerk for a husband?” she says, hoping I’ll spill a secret.

  Normally, I would, but I don’t feel like it today. Over the years, she’s tried to pry out details about her future beau, wanting little hints as to whether he plays an instrument or is a dog person. Of course, I never reveal anything specific, but because she’s my best friend, I do reassure her that she’ll live happily ever after.

  That kind of reassurance has never been reciprocated. When I’ve asked her to share a scene from my future, she gets real quiet, and not just because she’s trying to keep a secret. For me, her eyes stay still, with no buzz of excitement behind the sockets. And I’m pretty sure it’s because she’s taken a look at what lies ahead and has seen what I’ve feared for quite some time: that I will never fall in love.

  I wave a finger. “Ah-ah, no poking in tomorrows.” I laugh.

  Besides, I need to focus on what’s coming later today.

  I’M KNEE DEEP IN A prolonged matchmaking session when Bob, our part-time employee, starts doing his best impression of a boulder. This is a very inopportune time for him to
mentally check out, seeing as how we have a paying client sitting with us.

  “Is he okay?” the customer asks with an expression that is clearly questioning the validity of our operation.

  I let go of her hands momentarily and wave some smelling salts under his nose. “Bob…Earth to Bob…”

  He shakes his massive head, blinking his eyes at doubled speed. “Oh. Sorry. Did I space out again?”

  “Yup. What were you thinking about this time?”

  “Fire. Lots and lots of fire,” he says, the tips of his mouth curling like a flame.

  “Oh, that’s nice, and not at all creepy,” I say. I turn back to our horrified client. “Don’t worry about him. He’s brilliant at what he does; he’s just…challenged at about everything else.” She nods uncomfortably, and I take her hands again, even though I already have a clear picture of her future beau. For an additional fee, those looking for love can actually see it, thanks to Bob’s sketches based on my descriptions of what I envision. Bob’s what we in the community refer to as a “mending magus”: someone who got a little too deep into the black arts and had to be pulled out before disappearing altogether. Basically, he’s a recovering magic addict, and him working here is like being on parole. You can’t really take away a wizard’s source of power, but you can monitor it. While plopping him down in the middle of a magic shop may seem like dangling whiskey in front of an alcoholic, it’s actually a safe space for him to channel his energies.

  About two years ago, I discovered him producing some Mona Lisa–level drawings in the back room using old flower petal ink that never sold. Because I am brilliant, I decided to put him to work as my sometimes assistant, charging a premium to those wanting more than a simple physical description of their meant-to-be. I describe what I see, he sketches it on some archival parchment, and customers dig into their wallets. Win, win, win.

  Bob adds the finishing touches to his drawing. Something about actually seeing a match always turns patrons to mush, making them forget any preconceived weirdnesses about magic. It’s funny how many a wandering soul will make their way into our shop, putting on an air of disbelief and self-righteousness that instantly dissolves the second they find what they’ve been searching for. The woman clings to the drawing, abandoning her discomfort, while tracing Bob’s lines with her fingers, swirling atop the dark curly hair, and caressing the strong jawline. I’m happy for her, but I can’t wait for her to leave, so I gently nudge the tip jar in her general direction.

  “You seem twitchy today,” Bob says, plodding back over to the register. Mom has been working with him for years, and he’s gotten much better at controlling his urges. He even comes to coven meetings every now and then. Still, he can’t seem to shake his lucky rabbit’s foot, which is basically a furry blankie. “You didn’t even give her your regular post-match spiel about turtledoves or whatever it is you say. What gives?”

  “Nothing, sheesh. You’ve been off on a different astral plane for the past thirty minutes, and I’m the one acting weird?”

  He chuckles. “Okay. If you say so.” Bob’s a good guy, despite his slightly disturbing daydreams. He’s a big dude—I’m sure somewhere on his family tree there’s an ogre or two—but while he’d happily demolish an evildoer in the most painful way, he’s fiercely protective of the ones he cares about. He’s like a gentle giant whose dark side you never want to awaken. Also, I’m pretty sure he killed the rabbit whose foot he’s always rubbing.

  And he’s right—I’m definitely not myself. I keep my mouth busy with a too-dry vending machine cookie while my head spins. I feel weird about Charlie’s impending visit. Besides Amani, it’s very rare to have someone from school make a conscious effort to see me at work; if I do get approached for my talent, it’s usually just a quick hallway or parking lot exchange. It’s not a secret I work here; still, I feel strange sharing the space with an outsider. Opposite worlds colliding and all that jazz.

  If Charlie is coming to talk about his mysterious daddy problem, I won’t have much to say on the subject. He really should be talking to Mom, but maybe he assumes his dad already covered that angle. Or maybe he really is looking for some matchmaking assistance. Who knows? But for some reason, I’m jittery, and no amount of low-quality baked goods can help calm me down. I wander around the shop, looking for something to clean or organize while I wait for Charlie’s arrival.

  Navy Pier can either be the center of the universe or the edge of oblivion depending on the day. The peninsula hosts a rotating slew of special events, from car shows and holiday extravaganzas to lavish waterside weddings. The conventions and overpriced parties draw in spectators like a tractor beam, and all those extra bodies from the far-flung suburbs and neighboring states usually result in added sales for us. I mean, who wouldn’t purchase something called “Nap in a Bottle” on a whim? (It’s actually pretty awesome, like liquid narcolepsy. Can’t fall asleep? This will knock you out before you can put the stopper back in. Mom doesn’t like me “wasting” the magic she makes for purchase, but once I used a drop of it on Ivy to hilarious results.) But on those off times, the afternoons are painfully slow, and I wish my talent was not matchmaking but rather time travel so I could become my future pajamaed self.

  I’m stacking a display of geodes to look like the Leaning Tower of Pisa when Charlie strolls in. He’s still wearing his uniform, only he’s lost the jacket and traded the oxfords for black Converse. I myself have changed into my work outfit, which Mom likes to classify as “magic light.” No one would take us seriously if we walked around in black pointy hats, and yet, customers still crave that aura of mysticism when shopping for magical tokens and whatnot. So today I’ve layered up several pagan charm necklaces on top of a silver star-printed tee. Presto! Magic light.

  “Welcome to Windy City Magic. What can I do for you?” I say. The words sound weird, even though I say them every day. This is my home turf, but mixing in a Manchester specimen makes me feel oddly out of place. I make sure to do a quick eye-lock with Charlie so I can speed through his happily ever after and get down to business. Yup, there’s his dream girl; they’re madly in love, yadda, yadda, yadda, and scene.

  “Is your mom here?” Charlie asks.

  “No, she’s out. Were you hoping to talk to her?” Maybe I won’t have to deal with him at all.

  “No, I just wanted to know if she was here, if she’d be listening. I don’t know how it works with…witches.” He says it carefully, like he’s afraid he might offend me. With his stature, I’m sure he’s spent time doing media training and learning the importance of political correctness.

  I cross my arms. “We prefer the term ‘magically inclined,’” I say.

  He winces, eyes panicked. “Oh, really?”

  “No.” I laugh, relaxing my stance. “That’d be obnoxious.” Charlie breathes a small sigh. “But seriously, why are you here?”

  He gives me a look I don’t know how to interpret before answering, “It’s about my soon-to-be stepmom. She’s missing.”

  Aha! Jackpot!

  “Right, right, your dad was in here the other day. My mom’s working on it.”

  “Yeah, I figured as much. Has she made any progress?”

  “Don’t know.” I shrug. Looks like this will be a quick visit after all. “I’m not exactly on the case.”

  “Oh,” he says, disappointed. He sticks his hands in his pockets, looking around the room. It seems like he wants to say something else, but instead he just stands there.

  “So I know this is a magic shop, but I’m not exactly a mind reader. If there’s something you want, Charlie, you’re gonna have to spill,” I say.

  “It’s just that…there are people who like you for you, and people who like you for what you’ve got. My dad, for all his smarts, is kind of stupid when it comes to this. He’s always looking for the diamond in the rough when most people are just plain coal. I know he’s worried about Cassandra, but honestly, her disappearance is for the best. I’m kind of hoping you’ll help me k
eep her gone.”

  Whoa. Wasn’t expecting that. “Because…?”

  “Because she only wants him for his money. It’s so obvious I’m kind of embarrassed for him.”

  “Ooh, a wicked stepmother. How very Brothers Grimm.”

  “Yeah, and I guess that makes me Cinderella,” he says wearily.

  “If the slipper fits.”

  Charlie turns his back to me and faces a display of porcelain dragon figurines. “These are…really something,” he observes. He picks one up: a sparkly teal monstrosity with outstretched wings. The damned thing looks like it would sooner burst into song than flames.

  “Yeah, I think Navy Pier requires all merchants to stock a certain percentage of tacky useless crap,” I say.

  He gives me a sideway glance, dark-green eyes peering outside the field of his lenses. I can tell he doesn’t know what to make of me; the feeling is mutual. What kind of person actively tries to keep a loved one away from someone they love? Matchmakers are approached to bring people together, not tear them apart.

  “So are you going to help me or not?” he asks, replacing the dragon next to a statue of a pixie playing a flute.

  “Well, this kind of request is new for me, and it comes with a disclaimer: if Cassandra is your dad’s match, there’s not much I can do about it.”

  “What do you mean?” He turns to face me. He’s taller than me but not by much. I look directly at his downturned mouth. “Can’t I just pay you to do a spell or something?”

  “Despite what you may have heard, I’m not actually a witch. My magical inclination is targeted to one specific organ.” I poke my finger at his chest. “I’m a matchmaker.”